Charlie Muffin U.S.A.

26

Tony Santano had not intended to be so late returning. He had properly anticipated Terrilli’s response to the marijuana seizures. He recognised, too, that it gave him the opportunity to come back, a loyal lieutenant apparently doing everything to ensure that there were no further mistakes with the security and this private business. It enabled him in fact to report the names of the men involved to those who were also going to censure Terrilli.

But he hadn’t quite sufficiently gauged the seriousness of the seizures themselves until that night’s meeting. As he and Patridge and Terrilli had talked, the full import had come to him and he had realised that the concern from above would be initially more with the interceptions than with whatever Terrilli was doing on the side, and that as the man who had established the Colombian operation in Bogota, there was a danger of the failure reflecting upon him.

So he had sat longer than he had intended in the car outside Patridge’s home, trying to find the proper excuses to the inevitable enquiries and to evolve, too, the correct approach when he got to South America to guarantee the interceptions stopped taking place.

He had been humming as he drove along Ocean Boulevard, happy with the solution. The affair with the stamps gave him the let-out here, just as it did with his return. If he were asked to explain, he would imply, because that would be the cleverest way to make the accusation, that Terrilli had been too occupied with this outside thing to devote his full attention to the shipments. Patridge, who was aware of his ambition and agreed that Terrilli’s tenure of the top place was endangered, would support him, Santano knew. Because Patridge recognised that he was the natural successor to Terrilli, Colombia would be easy. He would create a few examples and tighten everything up through fear.

There was a bend in the private road, which meant that approaching vehicles had to slow, and until it was negotiated it was not possible to see the high main gates. Santano was half way around and beginning to smile at the already open gates when the Cuban commando group mistook his car for the first of the robbery convoy and ambushed it.

They had concentrated at the bend, recognising it as the spot where vehicles had to reduce speed and were therefore easiest to stop.

Santano actually jumped, startled by his headlights picking out a man rising from the ditch about eight yards ahead. And then he realised that the man was bringing his hand up and that the hand held a Magnum, supported against recoil by the man’s stance and left hand clamped to his right wrist. Santano had survived before on his reflexes, and his reaction now was almost automatic. He ceased turning the wheel to complete the corner, instead straightening out and heading directly towards the gunman. The manoeuvre might have worked on someone less professional, causing him to falter or even leap aside. But this man didn’t panic. He remained crouched, eyes screwed against the headlight glare for sight of the driver beyond, legs bent and pistol unwavering before him.

The Cuban managed one shot before the Mercedes struck him, carrying him spread across the bonnet until it hit a bordering palm tree, instantly crushing him to death. Santano did not have the satisfaction of seeing the man die. The ·375 Magnum has one of the highest muzzle velocities of any hand gun. The bullet burst the windscreen and completely decapitated Santano at the very moment when the car struck his killer.

After hitting the tree, the Mercedes toppled slowly to the left, nose first, into one of the bordering storm ditches, its rear wheels completely free of the ground. Santano’s body was not thrown out of the driving position by the impact, but rather forward against the controls, so that his foot jammed down against the accelerator and the engine howled at the continuing thrust of power. Five of the Cubans surrounded the car, but because of the way it was lying they did not, in the few seconds available, realise that they had the wrong vehicle. One man was actually crawling in through the easiest opening, the destroyed windscreen, when Chambine’s car came around the corner.

Chambine’s reflexes were every bit as good as Santano’s and he had the advantage of almost half the interception squad being around the ambushed car, and the remainder caught unawares and temporarily out of position. But initially he misunderstood the situation. He thought that the Cubans were part of Terrilli’s personal squad and assumed the upended Mercedes to be a car that had been stopped while trying to penetrate that security. He did not imagine any danger to himself or those with him. Neither did he think the problem concerned him; his function remained to get in and out in the shortest time possible, particularly with the complication that could arise from the crashed Mercedes.

He swept by, accelerating up the straight part of the roadway leading to the open gates when the rear window exploded over both the stamps and the occupants of the station waggon as a bullet from one of the Armalite rifles ricochetted off the edge of the bodywork and Chambine heard Bertrano, in the rear, shout, ‘What the fuck…’

‘They’re firing,’ said Bulz incredulously. ‘They’re firing at us.’

Chambine was only yards from the entrance now. There were men grouped around it, gazing momentarily uncertain up the roadway, but one had already activated the controls so that the heavy gates were swinging closed. Chambine pounded on the horn and accelerated harder. The rear nearside wing clipped the gate edge as he squeezed through, throwing the car sideways into a skid and as he fought to control it, Chambine heard Bulz shout, ‘They’ve got Saxby.’

The Chrysler had been less than three seconds behind the larger vehicle, but the Cubans were ready now, concentration again fully on the road. Saxby had been driving, with Boella in the seat beside him and Beldini at the back. Saxby had slowed, at first because of the bend, and then more at the sound of the Armalite shot which had shattered the station waggon window. Beldini had drawn his own gun, a Smith and Wesson, and when Saxby began to come out of the corner he saw that they were confronted by at least nine men, all armed. Beldini fired through the clsed window, the sound so deafening within the enclosed car that Saxby screamed with the pain it caused in his ears. The shot did nothing except break the glass. Then the Cuban with the AK47 began firing, the weapon on automatic, so that the bullets sprayed the car, scything through the three occupants and killing them instantly. Out of control, the car plunged straight on, scattering the commandos and staking the rear of the Mercedes, knocking it further into the storm ditch. The automatic transmission raced on, adding to the howl from the Mercedes. One of the Mercedes’ spinning rear wheels made occasional contact with the bonnet of the Chrysler, throwing up spurts of black smoke as the tyres scorched the paintwork.

‘The gates are closing.’

The warning came, in Spanish, as the Cuban with the AK47 opened the driver’s door, threw Saxby’s body carelessly into the road and then thrust himself into the car. Before emerging, he switched off the ignition, at the same moment as someone else managed it in the Mercedes. They were momentarily disconcerted by the silence, shouting when there was no longer a reason.

‘There’s nothing here,’ said the man in the Chrysler, lowering his voice half way through the sentence. ‘It must have been in the first car.’

‘We’ll have to blow the gates.’

The uncertainty of Terrilli’s people disappeared at the sight of more than a dozen men, all armed, approaching near enough to be seen in the searchlight’s glare. Terrilli’s guards only had handguns, which were ineffective for the range, but their firing split up the Cuban group, driving them into the bordering ditches. Two began answering with their Armalites, hitting two of Terrilli’s guards with their first few shots and forcing the others through the small side gate to the protection of the wall beyond. The return fire from the mansion was sporadic because rifles hadn’t yet been hurried to the gates, and there was little hindrance to the men groping along the ditch towards the plastic explosives detonator.

Terrilli’s mansion was about two hundred yards from the gatehouse. The golf cart, which was the normal estate transport vehicle, was bringing rifles from the outbuildings and had pulled in beside the gates when the plastic exploded.

A supporting pillar weighing nearly ten tons snapped completely at its base, lifted eight feet into the air and then pulled sideways by the huge, splintering gates. It fell directly on to the golf cart and its driver, who had died seconds before in the first shock of the detonation. The gatehouse, in which five men had crouched, abutted the pillar. The shock killed three, and crushing masonry a fourth. The fifth man was to be found three days later, deafened and blinded, his vertabrae, both legs and an arm crushed. Incredibly, he was to live for a further five years, in a home for the incurably ill, with no memory of what had happened to him.

Terrilli had received the first warning from the gatehouse after the ambush of Santano’s car, although the vehicle had not been identified as that of his lieutenant. He had ordered the gates to be closed, and still had the telephone in his hand when Chambine’s station waggon was identified and reported to have scraped through.

The speed of Terrilli’s reaction was that of an exceptional man. He depressed the receiver to clear the line and then dialled his lawyer in Fort Worth. The man knew better than to interrupt, accepted immediately that there was a major problem and promised to be at the house within the hour; until which time Terrilli was to refuse any interview with anyone in authority and should certainly not consider making a statement upon any subject whatsoever.

Terrilli had intended receiving Chambine alone in the study, where he had taken his calls, but decided that the changed circumstances now made that impossible.

Unaware of the surveillance, electronic monitoring and photography to which he had been subjected in the previous days, Terrilli imagined his only provable connection with the crime was what Chambine was bringing up the driveway to his mansion. Which made it a pity that Chambine had succeeded in getting through the gates. A pity; but then again, not a disaster. Terrilli had little doubt that the interception had been carried out by the police following some mistake on Chambine’s part.

There might be suspicions, he thought, but none that could not be resolved with sufficient persuasion. He’d invested a great deal of time and effort and money against just such an eventuality as this. Whatever the suspicions, he was fairly confident that there would be no serious questioning of his insistence that he knew nothing of Chambine and could only assume that the presence of the man and his companions was the result of a panicked attempt by criminals to find sanctuary down a darkened roadway when they realised they were being pursued.

Possible testimony from Chambine and whoever else was with him would upset that, of course. So Terrilli determined that he would have to behave like the public-spirited citizen he had so often proved himself to be. What would be more understandable than responding forcibly to the amazing and frightening situation of being confronted in your own home by a group of armed men? He would be able to show the proper regret that they should all have perished in their attempts to seize his house or himself, or whatever else their purpose might have been.

His real regret would be in having to return the Romanov Collection, but he knew that there was no alternative. He might be able to hold it for a few moments, at least.

Terrilli realised that he missed Santano. He could have outlined the idea within a few moments and the man would have put it into effect, making sure that there were no problems. Without him, Terrilli himself had to brief those at the gate. He stood at one of the inter-estate control panels, wall-mounted beside the huge entrance, jiggling the receiver to summon those who would have by now sealed the gate against entry. He was looking through one of the side windows as he did so and saw perfectly in the estate floodlights Chambine’s car coming too fast up the driveway; it was impossible for the man to negotiate the bend at the top of the drive without running over the neatly clipped lawn edge.

Because he was looking in that direction, he saw the explosion that tore away the gate. There was a sudden flare of white, then orange, and he heard the muffled crump, the windows and very fabric of the house seeming to shudder under the impact of the blast. A scratching, tearing sound came from the instrument in his hand and he knew that it was useless. He replaced it neatly on the hook.

There were more of his people about the house and in the outbuildings. But he could not assemble them in time to confront the occupants of the car, which at that moment mounted the lawn in front of the house, as Terrilli had feared, ripped a track through it as the brakes were applied, and slid into the steps before stopping.

Terrilli opened the door, struggling with a feeling he was yet to know as fear, but more occupied with planning how to kill the thieves himself. He realised it would be almost impossible.

Chambine was out of the vehicle first, running around the bonnet in an awkward, crab-like way as he tried to see what was following as well as what he was heading for. He hesitated, confused by the sight of Terrilli, glancing back curiously at the others who were thrusting themselves out of the car.

‘Get in,’ said Terrilli.

‘The stamps…’

‘Leave them.’

Chambine entered first, then Bulz, followed by Bertrano and Petrilli, who came in side by side. Immediately beyond the door they halted, looking uncertainly about them. Within seconds there was a perceptible change in the attitude of Bulz, Bertrano and Petrilli, as they recognised the man in whose house they were.

‘What happened?’ demanded Terrilli.

‘Ambushed in the approach road,’ said Chambine.

‘So the other three are dead or captured?’

Chambine seemed baffled by the question. Then he said, ‘They were behind us. They got hit, certainly. But there was another car in front.’

‘Another car?’

‘An ambush,’ Chambine repeated, ‘we went into an ambush.’

‘So someone knew… someone already knew…’

Chambine shrugged. ‘How the hell do I know?’

Terrilli paused, then decided to ignore the sudden lapse of courtesy. With this came another decision. He couldn’t kill them, not now he didn’t know what was happening. And then there was a further thought. He’d disclosed himself to others beside Chambine. That feeling came again, the unaccustomed fear.

‘What about that explosion?’ he asked.

Again Chambine shrugged. ‘The gates, I suppose. Why don’t you ask your own people?’

‘None of them have come back yet.’

‘Men,’ reported Bertrano, from one of the windows alongside the door, ‘there are men moving across the driveway out there…’

As he spoke there was a single shot, then another.

‘They’re trying to take the lights out,’ added Bertrano.

‘The police wouldn’t behave like this,’ said Terrilli, in sudden hope.

‘Who then?’ said Chambine.

‘I don’t know,’ said Terrilli. If the interception in the private roadway hadn’t been official, he was in better shape than he had thought. The explosion would obviously bring the police, but if he could contain whatever was going on before their arrival, there would be a way out; might even be able to get it officially regarded as a well-planned attempt at armed robbery of one of the community’s better known residents.

‘That room, to the right,’ he said, speaking generally. ‘The gunroom. There are weapons. Stop whatever’s happening out there and there’s an extra fifty thousand apiece.’

Bertrano and Bulz began running towards the room he had indicated.

‘The collection,’ remembered Chambine, ‘we left it out there in the car.’

‘Get it,’ ordered Terrilli.

They had taken the legs off the display cases before loading them into the station waggon. There were twelve, each containing four albums, and some separate exhibits, and although not heavy they were awkward to handle. It was impossible for either Chambine or Petrilli to carry more than one at a time. Three were inside before the first shot sounded, caroming off the ancient brickwork around the door and spitting chips into Terrilli’s face. He jerked back, hand to his cheek, momentarily dazed. Then he went to a control box near the communications panel, opened it and threw one of the switches. The porchway area was plunged into sudden darkness.

Bulz and Bertrano arrived at the door at the same time as Terrilli. Bulz had a pump-action Winchester. A figure rose, about a hundred yards away, and Bulz fired repeatedly, very practised with a rifle, and in the middle of the burst the man crumpled, fell and lay still.

Terrilli crouched low in the doorway, waving Petrilli and Chambine back and forth, muttering ‘careful’ and ‘easy’ every time either man handled a case badly.

Terrilli was waiting by the door, to close it, as Petrilli fell forward with the last case. He was at the top step when he got hit, high in the back so that he pitched forward, as if he were offering the case to those crouched around the door. The case fell and smashed, and Terrilli leaped out, snatching it up. Petrilli collided with him, knocking the older man sideways so that Terrilli ended hunched against the door edge with the broken case clutched to his chest. The shot had shattered Petrilli’s lungs. He was already bleeding from the mouth and some blood had splashed on to Terrilli, who shuddered, disgusted, and scrambled back through the door. Bertrano slammed it as another Armalite bullet struck home, making a hole about six inches in diameter

‘Heavy weapons,’ said Chambine.

‘And they know how to use them,’ added Bertrano.

He wheeled at a sound from behind, but Terrilli held up his hand.

‘My people,’ he said.

There were six, who had come from the outbuildings through the rear doors. Terrilli looked back to those at the doorway. Nine in all. That should be sufficient.

Another bullet smashed through a window, plucking the curtaining like a sudden wind.

‘They’re not police,’ Terrilli said positively. ‘Get out in the grounds. I want them taken away, every one…’

The men began turning.

‘Just a minute,’ said Terrilli.

They stopped.

‘These men will go with you,’ he said, indicating Cham-bine, Bulz and Bertrano. ‘And I want just one of those people out there brought back, just for a moment. I want to know who the hell they are.’

Terrilli was half way back to the study when the idea came to him. He stopped, openly laughing at it, then hurried on to the nearest telephone. He had himself connected immediately to the police emergency number.

‘Giuseppe Terrilli,’ he said, ‘I’m being attacked. In my own home. For God’s sake, hurry.’

‘We’re already on our way,’ the policeman assured him.

General Valery Kalenin had gone to particular trouble with the meal, wanting Berenkov later to realise that he had prepared the evening for the announcement. And not just the food; there had been two bottles of Aloxe-Corton and there was another in readiness on a sideboard. Kalenin knew it was his friend’s favourite.

‘You’re an excellent host,’ said his guest, belching appreciatively.

‘I’ve some news,’ said Kalenin.

Berenkov smiled at him over the table.

‘Charlie Muffin is alive,’ said the K.G.B. chief.

For a moment, Berenkov’s expression faltered and then the smile widened.

‘I never believed he’d died in that air crash,’ said Berenkov. ‘It was too neat and tidy.’

He looked expectantly at Kalenin.

‘In America,’ continued Kalenin. ‘Appears to be working for some insurance firm.’

Berenkov nodded. ‘Sir Archibald Willoughby’s son was an underwriter. Thought of attempting to compromise him once. But his father had him too well protected.’

‘Yes,’ confirmed Kalenin, ‘it’s his firm.’

Berenkov sat back reflectively. ‘Charlie Muffin,’ he said distantly. ‘I liked that man. He caught me and I got a forty-year jail sentence. But I still liked him.’

‘It was because of him you got released,’ Kalenin reminded him.

Berenkov shook his head. ‘He didn’t do that for me. Charlie did that for himself. Revenge.’

‘He appears to be getting in the way of an F.B.I. operation,’ said Kalenin. ‘They want to kill him.’

‘Does he know?’

‘I’m trying to stop it happening.’

Berenkov picked up his glass, gazing at the wine.

‘It’s a coincidence,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘This Aloxe-Corton. It’s a wine I recommended to him after he put me into prison. He used to drink rubbish before that…’

He sipped his drink.

‘It became his favourite too,’ the former spymaster added.