Charlie Muffin U.S.A.

29

Rupert Willoughby had sat unspcaking and motionless as Charlie had recounted the story, and even when Charlie stopped talking there was no immediate response. Then he breathed out noisily, an almost disbelieving sound.

‘Good God!’he said.

‘It almost worked,’ said Charlie.

‘So Terrilli escaped?’

‘It might appear so, from the outside. I suspect he’ll be handled by his own people.’

‘But that won’t stop the drug running?’

‘No,’ agreed Charlie. ‘It won’t stop that. It might hinder it for a while, that’s all.’

‘Thank you for keeping Clarissa out of it,’ said the underwriter unexpectedly.

‘She seemed annoyed.’

‘Did she?’ said Willoughby. ‘She’s got over it, if she was.’

‘Good.’

‘She wants you to come to dinner. Asked me to make arrangements with you today.’

Charlie stretched elaborately. ‘I’m still jet-lagged,’ he said.

‘Wednesday?’

‘I’ll call you,’ replied Charlie doubtfully.

‘Make sure you do,’ urged Willoughby. ‘I’d love her to hear what really went on… as much as she could be told, anyway. And she seems to have helped, even though she didn’t realise fully what she was being asked to do.’

‘You tell her,’ said Charlie.

‘Something wrong?’ asked Willoughby, frowning.

‘Of course not,’ said Charlie. He had not expected to feel this degree of guilt, confronting Willoughby for the first time.

‘Will you telephone tomorrow?’

‘All right,’ agreed Charlie.

Since his return from America, Charlie had been more alert than normal for any surveillance, fully aware in retrospect of the risk he had taken involving the Russians. He changed Underground trains three times after leaving Willoughby’s City office before he was finally satisfied, at last getting out at Oxford Circus for the Victoria Line connections to take him to Vauxhall. The evening rush hour was over and the crowd was thinning, making his checks easy. He approached the anonymous tower block confidently, convinced that his anxiety was unfounded and thinking back to Willoughby. He wondered how Clarissa would behave when they were both in her husband’s presence. She would be quite relaxed, he guessed. She’d be more used to it than he was. He realised with surprise that he wanted to see her again.

A graffiti artist had been busy in the lift, warning of God’s impending arrival to purge the earth of sinners, Jews, blacks and homosexuals. Charlie was glad he wouldn’t be around; whoever was left would bore the ass off him.

He stopped short immediately outside the elevator. The package was tight against the door of his flat. The corridor was deserted. The only noise was the distant sound of music from one of the apartments. Debussy, he thought.

He moved carefully forward, holding himself to the wall opposite the parcel. The shape was oddly familiar and Charlie frowned at it. He remained about two yards away for a long time, crouching twice in an effort to detect any wire leads. Then he went nearer, taking a pen from his pocket and gently tilting the parcel, trying to discover any connections at the bottom. At last he reached out, recognising the outline and smiling tentatively.

Unmarked brown paper was taped tightly around it. Still gently, Charlie peeled away the sealing, then cautiously unwrapped the paper. As the bottle was revealed, a small square of card slipped out and fluttered to the ground. He bent and picked it up.

GLAD TO LEARN YOU SURVIVED was printed in block capitals.

Charlie took the last of the paper away, cupped the bottle in his hand and saw it was vintage Aloxe-Corton.

‘Shit,’ he said.