Charlie Muffin U.S.A.

21

Williamson’s instructors had never sought to eradicate fear, because Russian psychologists at the training academy considered that a man who was not frightened was incapable of proper caution. And so while he had still been talking to Washington, Williamson had recognised the danger that the alteration to his instructions created, and felt the first wash of apprehension.

But it was not, as those psychologists might have expected, at the thought of injury or even death, concerned though he would be when the moment came. Williamson’s initial reaction came from an uncertainty that had grown with every week he had spent in America and which, try as he had, he had been unable to dispel.

To protect Charlie Muffin, he would have to involve the Cubans, which meant becoming known to them. And once that disclosure was made, he knew he would constantly risk exposure.

Williamson was not afraid of capture, but what would follow. The inviolable rule of his service – the insurance under which every Russian agent worked – was that eventually an exchange would be arranged and he would be repatriated to Russia.

And Williamson knew that he didn’t want to go back.

The feeling did not come from any disloyalty or lack of patriotism, but from the excellence of his training. While his allegiance remained unquestionably to Russia, Williamson was an American. He genuinely liked the California sunshine and twenty-four-hour drugstores and being able to pick up a telephone and get a meal delivered within an hour. His education had shielded him from the harsher aspects of Soviet life, but he knew they existed. He didn’t want a shared apartment, or the Bolshoi, or bone-numbing Moscow winters, or restaurant waits of four hours for a nearly inedible meal. That was why, still in the mainland kiosk, he had decided to brief only the leader of the Cubans and to try to avoid any meeting with the entire group. Because he knew Ramirez would accept unquestionably his identity from Washington, saving him the time-wasting necessity of establishing proof of who he really was, Williamson had asked that the Cuban leader be contacted first by the Embassy and instructed to come to his room at the Breakers. There was a tentative knock on the door and Williamson admitted the man, checking the corridor behind as he did so. ‘No one has seen me,’ Ramirez assured him. ‘I checked.’ Williamson turned back into the room, extending his hand. Ramirez took it, unsmiling.

‘I thought I was working alone, without a controller,’ said the Cuban. There was no resentment in his voice, just curiosity.

‘There were other things to be done,’ said Williamson. He was conscious of the Cuban’s attitude and knew Ramirez thought him to be an American. ‘Are our instructions changed?’

Williamson shook his head. ‘Just modified. The exhibition still has to be protected. But now there’s something else.’

He gestured Ramirez to take a chair. The Cuban sat, head to one side in the attitude of a slightly deaf man, as Williamson told him the result of monitoring Pendlebury’s rooms.

‘Ingenious proposal,’ said Ramirez. ‘They’ve taken a lot of trouble.’

‘Yes,’ said Williamson, ‘I suppose they have.’

‘Knowing what we do now, protecting the collection will be easy.’

‘I’ve given some thought to that,’ said Williamson. ‘I don’t think we should oppose the robbery here. It’s too public. There’d be little chance of our escaping undetected.’

And therefore of my being able to remain in America, thought Williamson. He would have to be careful that his determination not to return to Russia did not become obvious to Moscow.

‘Where then?’

‘There’s a private road leading to Terrilli’s house,’ said Williamson. There’s sufficient cover for an ambush there. When they get there, they will believe they’ve succeeded with the robbery. The timing will be right.’

‘The collection could get damaged.’

‘No more than it might if we confront them in the exhibition hall.’

‘Why is the man we have to protect so important?’

‘Because Moscow says he is,’ said Williamson shortly. ‘I wasn’t given a reason.’

‘Is he to know of the protection?’

‘No.’

‘Do you want to brief the others?’

‘No,’ said Williamson again, immediately regretting the urgency with which he spoke.

‘No,’ accepted Ramirez, looking at Williamson thoughtfully. ‘I suppose there’s no need. Are they to know of you at all?’

‘There’s no reason that they should. We’ll finalise all the arrangements now.’

‘So we won’t meet again?’

‘Not unless I become aware of any changes you should know about,’ said Williamson.

‘What about afterwards?’

‘You were given your instructions in Moscow?’

‘Yes,’ said Ramirez.

‘Then follow them.’

‘This isn’t going to be easy, is it,’ said Ramirez, ‘despite our knowing so much in advance?’

‘No,’ replied Williamson.

‘We’ve been told we can stay. I’m very glad to be back.’

‘America is a good country,’ said Williamson.

‘I’ve missed it,’ admitted the Cuban. ‘I’ve no complaints at the way we were treated, either in Cuba or in Moscow. But I’ve still missed it.’

‘I can understand,’ said Williamson.

‘We all feel the same. That’s why we want it to go well.’

‘We’ve got a lot of advantages,’ said Williamson, trying to reassure the man. ‘More than we could have hoped.’

‘The Americans told us that before we set off for Cuba.’

‘This time it will be different,’ promised Williamson.

‘I hope so.’

Heppert had been the willing messenger from Senator Cosgrove, to inform Charlie that he was wanted in the committee room. Immediately, Heppert had stressed, in a carefully contrived afterthought.

‘Their lawyers have given an opinion,’ said the Pinker-ton’s man, unable to get the satisfaction out of his voice.

‘Have they?’ said Charlie.

‘Yes. So the senator wants to see you…’ He paused, then repeated, ‘immediately.’

‘Fifteen minutes,’ said Charlie. It was a small point, juvenile almost, but even if he were to be forced to capitulate he wasn’t going to run cap-in-hand to the damned man.

‘He said immediately.’

Heppert talked like a programmed robot, thought Charlie. ‘Tell him I said fifteen minutes,’ he replied.

The politician had moved more quickly than he had anticipated, Charlie admitted. There was a chance that he could prevaricate until the following day, pleading the problem of the time difference between America and England, but the company would have to restore cover within twenty-four hours. It was a bugger.

He was moving towards the door, to answer Cosgrove’s summons, when the call came. He smiled, recognising Clarissa’s voice. He wondered why he was pleased to hear from her.

‘How are you?’

Fine,’ he said.’You?’

‘Missing you.’

‘I thought all your friends were there.’

‘They are. I’m still bored. I hoped you might invite me up for the celebration.’

‘What celebration?’ demanded Charlie.

‘The one that Kelvin Cosgrove is planning. Sally had a call this afternoon talling her to come up He said he wanted her with him; that it was important.’

‘When is it to be exactly?’ asked Charlie, feeling the beginning of a warmth spread through him.

‘Tomorrow, I gather,’ said Clarissa. ‘Surely you knew about it?’

‘No,’ said Charlie. ‘Apparently I’m not to be invited.’

If the celebrations were planned for tomorrow, then he had a timing for the robbery. No wonder Cosgrove wanted him so urgently. Strange how the most difficult things were often resolved by the simplest of errors. He wondered if Cosgrove had overlooked his wife’s friendship with Clarissa Willoughby or merely forgotten the tendency to gossip among the people with whom she mixed.

‘Can I come up?’ asked Clarissa.

‘I’d rather you didn’t.’’

‘I see.’

‘No,’ said Charlie, ‘you don’t see. I’d like you to be here, really I would. But the next couple of days aren’t going to be safe.’

There was an urgent knocking on the door of Charlie’s suite.

‘Wait a minute,’ he said to Clarissa.

Heppert stood in the corridor trying to mirror the anger of the men waiting downstairs.

‘It’s been half an hour,’ said Heppert. ‘They’re furious.’

Charlie left the door open, returning to the telephone.

‘Something has come up with the exhibition,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ll call you as soon as I can.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘I hope so.’

Charlie didn’t move away from the telephone.

‘One more call,’ he said to the sighing man in the doorway. Because it was internal, it took less than a minute.

‘There!’ said Charlie. ‘Ready.’

Still he did not leave the room, lingering a further few minutes, ensuring that he had everything in his pockets that he wanted and then, at last, he moved out into the corridor.

Heppert was already hurrying off, leading the way and trying to speed Charlie towards the lift.

‘Christ,’ said Heppert. ‘They’re mad. Bloody mad.’

‘Yes,’ said Charlie, ‘I expect they are.’