Charlie Muffin U.S.A.

23

Charlie Muffin sat unspeaking in the hotel control room, occasionally looking at the television screen and its pictures of the deserted exhibition hall, but otherwise motionless as the argument swung between the senator and the F.B.I. man. Pendlebury was restricted, Charlie guessed, by his knowledge of the appointment the politician might receive if the robbery went as they intended. When they had first entered the room, Charlie had thought Pendlebury was actually going to strike Cosgrove, so obvious was his fury.

‘If I hadn’t done what I did, the whole damned thing would have gone down,’ insisted Cosgrove. ‘He was going to bring in the local police. Terrilli’s people wouldn’t have come within a mile of the exhibition and you know it.’

From the brief look that Pendlebury gave him, Charlie was sure he would never have got near any telephone to summon the police; calls from his suite would be intercepted by now, he guessed.

‘And we’ve got official insurance cover again,’ continued Cosgrove defensively. ‘If anything goes wrong, we’re safe for the entire amount. Did your people get any government approval to risk six million dollars of their own money?’

‘It’s weakened what we hoped to put against Terrilli,’ said Pendlebury, looking towards him again. Charlie wondered who had originated the murder idea.

‘It’s enough,’ said Cosgrove.

‘It’s going to have to be,’ said Pendlebury bitterly.

‘They’re at Lake Worth,’ said Gilbert quietly, and Pendlebury glanced away from the men before him. Pendlebury, who was not wearing a jacket, was sweating so heavily that dark crescents had formed beneath his arms and he occasionally wiped a handkerchief across his face. He looked back towards them, picking on Charlie.

‘I never expected you to get as close as you did,’ said Pendlebury, in begrudging admiration. ‘Funny. When we were setting it up I said there is always the unexpected factor that fouls everything up.’

‘Flagler Bridge,’ noted Gilbert, at the radio.

‘It’s not fouled up,’ said Cosgrove, as Pendlebury half turned at the position report.

‘It had better not be,’ said Pendlebury. ‘Because now we’ve only got one chance.’

‘That’s all you ever had,’ Charlie reminded him.

Pendlebury smiled. ‘I was always sure of the robbery,’ he said.

Where, wondered Charlie, were the people whom he believed the Russians had moved in?

‘They’re here,’ said Gilbert.

Instinctively they all looked at the television screen, which remained eerily silent and empty.

‘Saxby and Boella have gone into the dining room,’ said the radio operator, hunched over the receiver. ‘Chambine is still in his room. The other four are just moving about the hotel.’

‘I reached an agreement,’ Charlie reminded Cosgrove, but turning to include Pendlebury. ‘I haven’t heard you give any instructions about it on that radio over there.’

Pendlebury sighed in apparent reluctance, then moved to where Gilbert had the communications equipment. Pendlebury glanced once towards Charlie and then curtly gave the all units order, countermanding his earlier instructions about Charlie.

‘Thank you,’ said Charlie.

‘You’re pretty cocky for someone who’s just learned how close he’s come to death,’ said Pendlebury.

‘It’s a kind of nervousness, really,’ said Charlie. He wondered, with a detached objectivity, how he was going to settle with Pendlebury. The bastard had led him along, almost by the nose, set him up to be killed and even now was treating him like a tolerant headmaster.

‘No hard feelings?’ said Pendlebury, just avoiding being patronising.

‘Of course not,’ said Charlie. It was like a bloody film script, he thought.

Cosgrove smiled, a politician who has succeeded in another compromise to suit everybody.

‘I’ll not forget your part in this,’ he said to Pendlebury.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said the F.B.I. man.

Cosgrove thrust out his hand and self-consciously Pendlebury took it.

There was movement on the television monitor and they all started towards it. Three uniformed guards had entered the room and were patrolling dutifully between the display cases.

‘Eleven-thirty,’ said Gilbert. There was a mumble from the radio. ‘Saxby and Boella have left the restaurant,’ he added, ‘and the other four are moving into some sort of grouping just outside the Alcazar…’ There was a pause, then Gilbert resumed: ‘And Chambine has just left his room.’

Pendlebury scooped a handful of ice into a glass and poured a measure from a full bottle of vodka that was on a small table. Appearing suddenly aware of the others, he said, ‘Help yourselves.’

Neither Cosgrove nor Charlie took up the invitation.

‘Saxby and Boella have gone out through the pool area,’ said Gilbert, ‘and Petrilli is making his way towards the ante-room…’

Charlie knew that would be where he had stood, in apparent contrition, four hours earlier while Cosgrove had announced the resumption of insurance cover to the rest of the committee. The door leading from the foyer was in a small recess and there were parts of it where a man would be quite invisible to the general reception area.

‘He’s through…’ said Gilbert.

‘His job is to bypass the electrical alarms in the ante-room and the linking door into the exhibition hall proper…’ said Pendlebury. He was looking at a clipboard. There were names written in a left-hand column and tiny figures were inscribed on the paper.

‘Now the others are crossing,’ said Gilbert. ‘Bertrano first… now Bulz… Beldini’s waiting… apparently there’s been a sudden influx of people into the foyer…’

The Russians? wondered Charlie hopefully. They should have responded by now.

Cosgrove patted his pockets, located his cigarettes and lit one, staring throughout the entire operation at the radio set. Pendlebury stood with both hands held in front of his chest, with the glass against his lips, but not drinking from it.

‘He’s moving now… he’s through…

’ Pendlebury sighed, drinking at last, and Cosgrove exhaled cigarette smoke in relief.

‘Eleven-fifty-three,’ recorded Gilbert.

‘Two minutes ahead of schedule,’ said Pendlebury. ‘Now they wait until the midnight security round.’

‘You appear to know a lot about it,’ said Charlie. Briefly Pendlebury smiled. ‘I know more about it than they do themselves,’ he said, moving towards the bottle.

It seemed he had been wrong about the people he had imagined the Russians had installed, thought Charlie. He had been wrong about almost everything else so far. He curbed the self pity. Not wrong. Just misunderstood. He’d still fucked it up, though, whatever qualification he tried to make in his own defence.

Williamson had lost his supremacy and because of it he was uneasy: not wishing to do anything not properly thought out, but still uneasy. From the moment Pendlebury had established his control room, it had been occupied by a minimum of three people, often more. They took no room service because of the risk of revealing the equipment inside, which made it impossible for Williamson to establish surveillance similar to that in the other accommodation. Because of the conversation he had monitored from Pendlebury’s original rooms, he knew the purpose of the move, which made Charlie’s admission to it even more inexplicable. As confusing, almost, as the hour-long meeting the man had had in Senator Cosgrove’s suite. Failing to install any listening devices there had been a bad mistake. His first; but still it was inexcusable. The only obvious conclusion was that Charlie Muffin had concurred with the robbery. It would be a remarkable about-face, his having gone to the extreme of warning Moscow. But then his own instructions had changed, just as remarkably. Williamson thought back to the conversation during which he had been appointed the man’s protector. ‘Someone unusual for his deviousness’ had been the warning. The man whom he now knew to be Charlie Muffin was certainly that.

Williamson, who was sitting in the foyer, glanced up at the wall clock and then expectantly along the corridor in the direction from which the security men would enter. Exactly on time, they approached the exhibition hall and three entered while a fourth remained on guard outside. How easy it would have been, reflected Williamson, to walk up calmly and alert the guard that four men who intended to steal the contents of the chamber behind him were at that moment crouched in the darkness of the ante-room, its alarms already nullified. The security people emerged within two minutes. Aware that Pendlebury wouldn’t risk his people humping a dead body through the foyer, Williamson had decided that if an attempt were to be made upon Charlie’s life, it would be within ten feet of where he sat. And within the next twenty-eight minutes. He looked around, wondering if the Englishman had left Pendlebury’s control centre. On the far side of the reception area, Ramirez waited in the position Williamson had specified. Aware of the man’s attention, the Cuban looked up, anticipating some nodded instruction. Williamson stared at the man blank-faced, then looked away.