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Brian Freemantle: Charlie Muffin U.S.A.

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Brian Freemantle Charlie Muffin U.S.A.

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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.

Warburger held back from asking, instead leading Pendlebury to a seat near his desk. Bowler was already waiting near a chair which Pendlebury assumed was his by custom.

‘Got a big one for you,’ announced Warburger, back in his own executive chair, but leaning forward from it, urgently. ‘The biggest.’

Pendlebury decided that Warburger would always talk with intense enthusiasm, in the hope that those whom he was addressing would become infected by the feeling and work the better for it.

Warburger seemed to expect some response, but Pendlebury couldn’t think of anything to say. Finally the Director continued, ‘What did you think of those Chicago auctions?’

‘Brilliant,’ said Pendlebury honestly. He had never been able to understand how the second one had worked so well, after so many criminals, many with provable Mafia connections, had been scooped up in the first phoney warehouse sale of stolen goods that the F.B.I. had staged. Greed, he supposed. Often Pendlebury thought that psychiatrists and psychologists were wrong and that greed superseded sex or hunger as man’s primary motivation.

Warburger smiled, pleased with the assessment. ‘We’re going to put on another one,’ he said. ‘Just for one man. We’re going to get Giuseppe Terrilli.’

‘You’ve got to be joking!’ said Pendlebury, aware the moment he spoke that he’d lost the goodwill earned by his previous praise of the auction idea.

‘There’s nothing funny about this,’ declared Warburger earnestly. ‘I’ve created a situation that I know will get him and you’re going to be the one to make it work. And let me tell you something else… something I never want you for a moment to forget. There’s more in this than just catching Terrilli.’

‘What?’ demanded Pendlebury, cutting the Director off at what appeared to be the beginning of a speech.

Warburger paused, frowning at the intrusion.

‘Politics,’ he said. ‘If this goes as I intend, this Bureau is going to have Capitol Hill protection for years.’

Pendlebury sat regarding the Director warily. The crotch of his trousers was drying, the cloth becoming like stiff cardboard.

‘How’s that?’ he asked.

‘We needed a front… something that Terrilli would never suspect. The exhibition that is to trap Terrilli is being staged in aid of a children’s charity. And the organiser is Senator Kelvin Cosgrove.’

‘He’s an asshole,’ said Pendlebury, aware of the Director’s immediate wince and regretting the outburst.

‘He’s a powerful politician who stands a very good chance of becoming Attorney-General. And this operation is going to get him the appointment,’ said Warburger.

‘He’s media happy,’ warned Pendlebury. ‘He’d blow it.’

‘No,’ argued Warburger. ‘Not this time. He knows the advantages will come when it’s all over. He’ll do nothing to foul it up. It’s as important to him as it is to us.’

‘He’ll not want any part in the actual operation?’

‘Absolutely not,’ said Bowler. ‘He’ll be kept fully briefed on what’s happening, of course. But he wants no public acknowledgment for what happens until after Terrilli’s arrest.’

‘Which he will get, unstintingly,’ added Warburger.

‘And for which the Bureau will receive his heartfelt gratitude and support throughout the duration of his office, if he gets it,’ predicted Pendlebury.

‘Exactly,’ confirmed the Director. ‘How’s that for neatness?’

‘Why me?’ asked Pendlebury, more interested in his own safety than in flattering the Director. There would be at least a hundred other operatives at supervisor level whom he knew, quite realistically, Warburger and Bowler would prefer. He wondered if they’d tell him the truth or try to bullshit him.

‘Because you’re the one the computer came up with,’ said Bowler. ‘We cross-checked everyone at your level against any involvement whatsoever which might have made them known to Terrilli or his people. He’s got an organisation almost as efficient as ours and he’s survived so long by using it properly. There’s nothing you have done for them to have a file on you…’

Bowler trailed away and Warburger came in, as if they had rehearsed ‘… and we’ve been impressed by your file. Very few failures.’

‘Thank you,’ said Pendlebury.

‘And we don’t want any failures on this,’ warned War-burger. ‘Get this right and we’ll all be on guaranteed pensions.’

‘Or our widows will be,’ said Pendlebury pointedly.

‘Precisely,’ said Warburger, careless of Pendlebury’s reminder of who would be exposed to the danger. ‘Like I said, no mistakes.’

‘Terrilli’s a don, right?’ said Pendlebury. He hoped the honesty would continue.

‘A favourite to become capo di tutti capi,’ confirmed Warburger. ‘And he’s qualified to be the boss of bosses. He’s certainly the best example of how organised crime has covered itself with squeaky-clean enterprises. Those front businesses of his gross a legitimate $70,000,000 a year.’

‘Why be crooked?’ said Pendlebury, attempting some exactly what he is lightness.

Warburger misunderstood, snorting at the fat man’s naivety.

‘Every week of every year, approximately ten boats leave ports in South America, mostly in Colombia, and each is carrying an average of $6,000,000 worth of dope. They get off the Grand Bahamian Banks or around Cuba and then peel off, one by one, doing a chicken run for the coast of Florida. Those that get past the coastguards are a bonus. They’ve all got radio equipment aboard that could monitor a shot to Mars. As soon as one gets arrested, those still waiting offshore know. And so when the coastguard boat goes in as an escort those unarrested follow at a safe distance. While that one illicit cargo is being counted in Miami, the rest is being landed somewhere along the coast.’

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