Charlie Muffin U.S.A.

18

Giuseppe Terrilli sat forward in his chair, gazing down at some spot by his feet. The occasional nod – Chambine hoped of approval – was the only movement from the man as he outlined the preparations they had made and talked of the rehearsals in the Orlando warehouse.

Because he remained anxious to impress, Chambine took a long time, but Terrilli gave no sign of impatience. When Chambine finished, the older man remained sitting in the same attitude of concentration. Chambine waited on the edge of his seat, wondering what the response would be. He hoped he was managing to conceal his nervousness.

At last Terrilli looked up and Chambine relaxed very slightly at the smile.

‘You’ve thought it out very well,’ he said. ‘And appear to have chosen the people well, too.’

‘Thank you, Mr Terrilli.’

‘There seems little likelihood of failure.’

‘I don’t think there will be.’

‘The only problem I can foresee is the timing between the visits of the security guards.’

Chambine had omitted that morning’s discussion in the warehouse, knowing the other man’s attitude to violence. Now he said, ‘Some of the others are worried, too.’

‘If it has to happen, it happens,’ said Terrilli shortly.

‘I’ve made plans in case it becomes necessary to silence them.’

Terrilli smiled again. ‘I’m sure you have.’

‘But only in an emergency,’ added Chambine.

‘I’d like you with me permanently,’ said Terrilli. ‘How would you feel about that?’

‘I’d like it very much.’

‘I’ll do it properly,’ promised Terrilli. ‘Formally ask your people in New York, so there would be no offence.’

‘It would be better to leave amicably.’

‘Of course. What about your family?’

‘I’ve a house to sell in Scarsdale. And children to move from school. No problem.’

‘New York is always thought to be the place where the power lies in our organisation,’ Terrilli reminded him. ‘Why do you want out?’

Chambine smiled, happy with the relationship which appeared to be developing between them.

‘Because I’m not convinced that the tradition will last for ever,’ he said.

Terrilli nodded at the flattery. ‘Who knows?’ he said. ‘What will you do after the robbery?’

‘Finish my vacation,’ said Chambine. ‘To leave immediately afterwards might create suspicion.’

‘Tell me something,’ said Terrilli, believing he had softened the other man sufficiently to talk of loyalty. ‘What would you say if, having joined me officially, someone from another part of the organisation invited you to do the sort of thing you’re doing for me now?’

‘Refuse,’ said Chambine, immediately aware of the assurance that the older man wanted. He hesitated, knowing Terrilli required more and assembling the words to satisfy him.

‘I didn’t set this up for the $100,000,’ he said, talking quietly and looking directly at Terrilli. ‘I did it because I knew it to be a test of my ability. I’m not interested in freelancing. I’m interested in joining you.’

‘Do you regard yourself as ambitious then?’

‘Properly so,’ said Chambine cautiously. ‘You’d never have any cause to doubt my support, Mr Terrilli.’

‘I’m glad of the guarantee,’ said the other man. ‘There had better be no contact between us after the handover; the investigation around the hotel will be intense and I don’t want any connection.’

‘I understand.’

‘I’ll be in New York in three weeks. We’ll meet then and finalise the arrangements.’

‘I’ll look forward to it. Should I wait until your visit before making any positive plans?’

‘Yes,’ said Terrilli. ‘It’s proper that I should be the person to tell your people… you could always put your house on the market, of course.’

Terrilli rose and put out his hand. Chambine stood and took it.

‘Until Thursday night,’ said Terrilli.

‘There’ll be no problems.’

‘I know.’

Terrilli, unaware that he had been under surveillance from the moment he left his castle home at Palm Beach, to the extent of his helicopter being followed by radar from Palm Beach Airport to Orlando, was careful about his departure from the hotel, pausing several times to check for anyone who might be watching. Knowing he would have been conspicuous in his normal conservative suit in a vacation resort, he had dressed in sports jacket, slacks and loafers and merged unobtrusively with the people who boarded the monorail to take him back to the Disneyworld exit. The giggling teenage girls who sat two seats away, fooling with their Mickey Mouse caps, were both Pendlebury’s watchers.

Temporarily bereft of the constant attention of his aides, Terrilli felt vaguely uncomfortable boarding the open-sided tramway that toured the car parks. He made a note of his parking place on the back of his entry voucher receipt, conscious of how easy it would be to get lost.

The driver had kept the air conditioning running, and now Terrilli climbed gratefully into the cool Rolls that had been driven up in advance to ferry him between Orlando Airport and Disneyworld. It was mid-afternoon and the traffic was moderate, so it did not take them long to drive through the landscaped parks and rejoin Interstate 4. Within an hour, Terrilli was at the private section of Orlando Airport, boarding his helicopter.

He had convened his weekly meeting with Santano and Patridge for five o’clock, and arrived back fifteen minutes early, giving him the opportunity to change from his sports clothes, in which he had become positively uncomfortable, back into a business suit.

The lieutenant and the accountant were on time, as was customary. Terrilli sat at his ocean-view desk and the other men took their usual seats. Patridge fussily fitted his glasses into place, took his accounts from his briefcase and after handing duplicate copies to Terrilli and Santano carefully began taking them through the figures. ‘Three interceptions?’ cut in Terrilli. ‘It was a bad week,’ said Santano.

‘It’s too many,’ insisted Terrilli, not accepting casual dismissal.

Santano shifted uneasily and Patridge remained gazing down at his figures.

‘The boat captains were new,’ Santano attempted to explain. ‘They bunched up, which they’d been told not to do, and didn’t allow sufficient time for the lead boat to make the chicken run.’

‘It’s too many,’ repeated Terrilli, his voice disarmingly soft and conversational. ‘If the captains are inexperienced, we don’t employ them. This puts us down…’ He paused, going back to the papers before him ‘… something like $8,000,000.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Santano.

‘So am I sorry,’ said Terrilli. ‘I’m sorry and other people are going to be sorry and everyone is going to ask why it happened. Maybe even spread the sorrow.’

‘Perhaps I should go down to Colombia, to tighten up the recruitment of ships?’ suggested Santano.

‘If the alternative is to lose $8,000,000 a week, then I think you should,’ said Terrilli.

‘Four vessels did get through,’ said Patridge, trying to smooth the awkwardness. ‘That’s $9,500,000 on what they were carrying.’

Terrilli turned to him, his voice remaining hard.

‘Are you satisfied with just 55 per cent profit?’ he demanded. ‘I’m certainly not.’

‘It’s the first time it’s happened,’ said Santano.

‘It should never have happened at all!’ shouted Terrilli unexpectedly, and both men jumped, startled by the change in the older man’s voice. ‘One ship, we budget for. Two is an occasional but still acceptable risk. Three is ridiculous. There’ll be a demand for explanations… and they’ll want better answers than the problem of employing inexperienced people…’

‘I could go down to Colombia first thing tomorrow,’ offered Santano.

Terrilli’s pause was almost unnoticeable. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I want you here for Thursday. Call the airport and have them put an aircraft on standby for you on Friday morning.’

Terrilli wondered what Santano’s reaction would be to learning that he had put a personal matter above the interests of the organisation. The man looked curiously across the desk at him but said nothing.

Terrilli nodded for Patridge to continue and the man went back to his papers. The accountant had received the estimated crop yield from Colombia’s La Guajira peninsula and from it he predicted a 30 per cent increase over the previous year’s profits. It provided the opportunity for Terrilli to remark that profitability depended upon lack of interception, but he held back from the sarcasm, knowing that Santano was curious at being delayed until Friday and unwilling to alienate the man further than he had already done.

When Patridge had finished, Terrilli turned to Santano and said, ‘Anything?’

The lieutenant shook his head.

‘Thank you both,’ said Terrilli shortly. There were times when he invited them to stay on for a drink and even occasionally for dinner, but from his demeanour it was obvious to both of them that this was not going to be such a night. They were at the door when Terrilli called out.

‘I want to talk to you alone, Tony.’

The man came back into the room and the accountant lingered uncertainly near the door.

‘It’ll take a while,’ said Terrilli.

‘I’ll say goodnight then,’ said Patridge, going out and closing the door carefully behind him.

‘I’m sorry about the interceptions,’ began Santano immediately, imagining that that was the reason for his being held back.

‘It mustn’t happen again,’ said Terrilli, not wanting to talk at once about the robbery.

‘I’ll get positive guarantees about employment in Colombia,’ promised Santano eagerly. ‘We’ve had a good run lately and obviously our people there are getting careless…’

‘If it’s carelessness, then it must be stopped,’ insisted Terrilli. ‘We’ve made examples in the past. It’s time we made some more. If they’ve got to be taught the hard way, it’s really their fault.’

‘I’ll see to it,’ said Santano. ‘Sure you don’t want me to go down tomorrow?’

‘There’s a reason for you to stay,’ said Terrilli. ‘I want you here on Thursday night to organise something.’

‘What?’

‘I want the gates opened, the alarms turned off and the guards warned to expect a group of people, arriving in a hurry, sometime between twelve-fifteen and twelve-forty-five.’

‘What’s happening?’ demanded Santano. Because he had known the man for so long, Terrilli was aware of his changed attitude. Soon it would become resentment.

‘Something is being delivered,’ said Terrilli.

‘By outside people?’

‘It will be safer,’ said Terrilli. ‘If anything goes wrong, there’s no association with us. And I couldn’t risk that, right on our doorstep.’

‘What is it?’

‘The Russian stamp collection.’

‘A personal thing,’ said Santano immediately.

The speed of the man’s reaction showed that his loyalty was first to the organisation and then to him, Terrilli realised. It would be well to get Chambine alongside as soon as possible.

‘Yes,’ agreed Terrilli, ‘a personal thing.’

‘I don’t like the idea of outside people,’ said Santano, coming as near as he dared to criticism.

Again Terrilli judged the man’s concern to be over the danger to their set-up, rather than any possible personal difficulty.

‘I’ve chosen them carefully,’ said Terrilli. ‘They’re good men.’

‘Shouldn’t I run a check, just to make sure? There are still four full days.’

‘I told you,’ Terrilli reminded him. ‘I don’t want anything to be associated with us.’

‘But they must know!’

‘One does, that’s all.’

‘So all he’s got to do is talk, if he gets picked up.’

‘I don’t think he will.’

‘It’s difficult to assess what a man will do, offered the choice between twenty years and a deal.’

‘He knows I’d have him killed, whatever protection was promised.’

‘Let’s hope he remembers,’ said Santano.

‘There are two vehicles,’ said Terrilli. From his wallet he took the numbers of the hire cars that Chambine had given him earlier in Disneyworld. ‘Once they’re in, close the gates. But have people standing by. They’re leaving immediately after the pay-off. No one will remain here longer than fifteen minutes.’

‘If there’s a chase, the law will be led straight to us,’ said Santano.

‘I’m confident there won’t be.’

‘We can’t be sure.’

‘This is how I want it to be,’ said Terrilli, rejecting the argument. Santano was right, he knew.

‘All right,’ said the younger man tightly.

‘I want everyone ready,’ emphasised Terrilli. ‘No mistakes.’

‘There won’t be any,’ promised Santano.

Terrilli decided he had been wise to wait until now before telling Santano what was to happen. There was insufficient time for the organisation to make any effective protest. But one would be made, he was sure.

‘No method of identification apart from the car numbers?’ queried Santano.

‘That’ll be all that’s necessary.’

Santano rose, moving towards the door again.

‘Make sure everyone knows,’ repeated Terrilli, not appreciating the opening he was giving the other man.

‘Everyone will know,’ said Santano heavily.

Charlie Muffin knew that if they had reacted to his telephone call, the Russians had to be in place by now. Which meant he must identify them. Idly, through most of the day, he had moved about the exhibition and its immediate vicinity, aware of the pointlessness of his actions, but trying to mark the Russian agents anyway. He had suspected no one, which could be either good – if they were that expert – or bad, if Moscow hadn’t bothered to respond. He planned the test carefully, knowing there would not be a second chance. By one o’clock in the morning, the hotel was becoming deserted, only a few late-night drinkers and a noisy party remained in the Alcazar. He had needed Pendlebury with him, because in his company those watching Charlie would be less alert. Pendlebury had maintained some reserve, even though he had drunk enough for Charlie to have expected him to relax. Charlie left his barstool at one-fifteen, heading towards the washroom. In his jacket pocket, the knife he had taken from the breakfast table and which he was still unsure would be strong enough for the purpose, bumped against his side. At the door to the washroom, he suddenly veered away, hurrying now towards the car park. He had already chosen the window into the exhibition room, one that was furthest away from the lights.

The window edge was rimmed, which made it difficult to put the blade between it and the sill and twice Charlie slipped, once almost cutting his hand. Satisfied at last that there was sufficient leverage, he paused, breathing heavily to prepare himself for the run that was to follow, then twisted and jerked the knife upwards.

The blade snapped with sufficient force to sting his hand, but the window opened wide enough to trigger the alarm. It burst out, a discordantly strident note.

Charlie managed to regain the foyer seconds after Pendlebury had lumbered, startled, from the bar. Charlie stood just inside the entrance, alert to everything. The uniformed security men came running from their cubbyhole, holster flaps unbuttoned, gazing wildly around and making for the main entrance to the hall. Those whom Charlie had already identified from their surveillance of him, and about five whom he had not, rushed flustered into the foyer, making their identification as F.B.I. operatives easy by looking to Pendlebury for guidance.

That left about fifteen other people just ahead of the curiosity seekers, who were filling the reception area. Foreign, judged Charlie, immediately. But they were certainly not Slavic. More Latin, from their colouring. And there was one man who didn’t fit the pattern or appear to be part of the group, very fair and American-looking. Someone who had been in the lobby by chance, decided Charlie, looking away from Williamson.

The Russian made no response to Charlie’s scrutiny. An hour before, he had had confirmation from Washington, from their voice-print test, that it was Charlie on the tape, and he was now considering how to kill the man, obedient to his instructions. It wouldn’t be very difficult, he decided.

At Pendlebury’s urging, the security men unlocked the main doors into the exhibition room and flooded it with light. As they were about to enter, another of Pendlebury’s people came in from the car park carrying the handle of the broken knife. As Pendlebury seized it, remaining near the entrance, Charlie wandered up and said quietly, ‘It took eight minutes.’

Pendlebury frowned up at him.

‘From the moment the alarm sounded to the time the security men went in. It was eight minutes,’ said Charlie.

‘Did you stage this?’ demanded Pendlebury, his face whitening with the beginning of rage. There was none of the drunkenness which Charlie had suspected earlier in the bar.

‘Hardly good enough, eight minutes,’ said Charlie. ‘Thieves could be half way to Miami by now.’

Heppert hurried up to Pendlebury. Charlie could see pyjama bottoms leaking from beneath the man’s trousers.

‘Nothing gone,’ reported the Pinkerton’s man. ‘Knife snapped as the window was being forced.’

‘I’m waiting for an answer,’ said Pendlebury to Charlie.

‘Yes,’ admitted Charlie. ‘I wanted to see how efficient things really were. I’m not impressed.’

‘And I’m not impressed by fucking play-acting.’

‘It wasn’t play-acting,’ said Charlie. ‘It was a valid security exercise that I’ve got every right to make. So don’t fuck and rage at me; you should be shouting at people asleep on the job.’

From outside came the sound of sirens and then the flashing of revolving lights as the local police tyre-howled into the car park.

‘And their arrival took twenty-two minutes,’ said Charlie, offering the American a sight of his watch for confirmation. ‘I’d been assured it would only take ten.’

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ said Pendlebury, still angry but more controlled now.

‘My job,’ replied Charlie. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

It had taken all Chambine’s self control to remain in the cocktail lounge when the alarm sounded, waiting for the protection of the small crowd that took several minutes to form before running to the foyer, but he managed it. He stayed on the edge and therefore concealed, watching the conversation between Pendlebury and Charlie and the local police. News that it was a false alarm quickly spread through the people in the foyer, who began drifting back to the other rooms. Chambine remained where he was able to see into the hall while the window was being checked for permanent damage before being refastened and the doors relocked by the uniformed guards.

It was another five minutes before one passed near enough for Chambine to address him without it appearing suspect.

‘What was it?’ he asked casually.

‘Some sort of test,’ said the man. ‘Frightened the shit out of me.’

‘Me too,’ said Chambine honestly.