Brian Freemantle: Charlie Muffin U.S.A.

‘Will you telephone tomorrow?’

‘All right,’ agreed Charlie.

Since his return from America, Charlie had been more alert than normal for any surveillance, fully aware in retrospect of the risk he had taken involving the Russians. He changed Underground trains three times after leaving Willoughby’s City office before he was finally satisfied, at last getting out at Oxford Circus for the Victoria Line connections to take him to Vauxhall. The evening rush hour was over and the crowd was thinning, making his checks easy. He approached the anonymous tower block confidently, convinced that his anxiety was unfounded and thinking back to Willoughby. He wondered how Clarissa would behave when they were both in her husband’s presence. She would be quite relaxed, he guessed. She’d be more used to it than he was. He realised with surprise that he wanted to see her again.

A graffiti artist had been busy in the lift, warning of God’s impending arrival to purge the earth of sinners, Jews, blacks and homosexuals. Charlie was glad he wouldn’t be around; whoever was left would bore the ass off him.

He stopped short immediately outside the elevator. The package was tight against the door of his flat. The corridor was deserted. The only noise was the distant sound of music from one of the apartments. Debussy, he thought.

He moved carefully forward, holding himself to the wall opposite the parcel. The shape was oddly familiar and Charlie frowned at it. He remained about two yards away for a long time, crouching twice in an effort to detect any wire leads. Then he went nearer, taking a pen from his pocket and gently tilting the parcel, trying to discover any connections at the bottom. At last he reached out, recognising the outline and smiling tentatively.

Unmarked brown paper was taped tightly around it. Still gently, Charlie peeled away the sealing, then cautiously unwrapped the paper. As the bottle was revealed, a small square of card slipped out and fluttered to the ground. He bent and picked it up.

GLAD TO LEARN YOU SURVIVED was printed in block capitals.

Charlie took the last of the paper away, cupped the bottle in his hand and saw it was vintage Aloxe-Corton.

‘Shit,’ he said.