Charlie Muffin U.S.A.

4

The stomach tightening came as his passport was checked, even though Charlie knew that it was the certificates with which it had been obtained that were the danger, not the document itself, which was as genuine as the visa that accompanied it. He wasn’t unhappy at the apprehension: it showed that he was properly cautious, which was how he was going to have to continue throughout the entire assignment. Properly cautious, despite his agreement with Willoughby that there was little risk. He’d been persuaded too easily, he realised, belatedly. Why? Had it been boredom? The conceit about which Edith had constantly warned him? Or the closely connected flattery at being asked again for help by someone like Rupert Willoughby?

It had been eight years since the deception that had cost the C.I.A. its Director. If they discovered that he was still alive, they would be as keen to get him now as they had been in those early years, when they had pursued him throughout Europe. It would only take one mistake: like the error of going to Sir Archibald Willoughby’s grave that they had observed so carefully, waiting for just such a slip. Charlie was uncertain whether during the past eight years he had retained the expertise that had enabled him to survive so successfully in the past.

The immigration official flicked dutifully through the black-bound prohibited aliens’ book by his left hand, stamped the passport, gave a quick, professional smile and gestured him through to reclaim his baggage.

There was the usual delay, so it was a further hour before Charlie cleared the airport complex and settled back for the drive along the Van Wyck Expressway into Manhattan. The driver was a dour, taciturn man, which suited Charlie, who didn’t want conversation anyway.

Although the exhibition was being staged at the Waldorf Astoria, Willoughby’s office had made him reservations at the Pierre. Charlie hurried through his registration, not feeling any jet-lag and anxious to examine the security precautions as soon as possible. He smiled, recognising another link with his past. It had always been like this, once an assignment had begun. Sir Archibald had even worried about it, in the early days, concerned that in his eagerness to become involved, Charlie might miss something. He rarely had, though.

He telephoned from his room so that the Pinkerton’s official, Michael Heppert, was waiting for him when he arrived at the exhibition hall. Heppert was a slightly built, nervous man, eyes blinking rapidly behind the sort of thick-framed spectacles that opticians recommend as showing executive character. The man spoke in a constant hurry, starting each sentence with an intake of breath and hoping it would last with the outrush of words, and had the habit, which Charlie found mildly disconcerting, of reaching out and holding on to the person he was addressing, physically to retain their attention.

From the pride in the man’s tour, it was obvious that Heppert had personally devised the security; he was like a teenager showing off a complicated model railway system, the operation of which only he knew how to manage to avoid the engines derailing.

Charlie dated his suspicion of routine to his National Service, and the war games staged to show the Russians just how prepared for attack the West was; men with red arm bands running around straight-faced and calling their mates in green arm bands the enemy. He admitted the basic usefulness of such exercises, of course, training people how to move tanks and equipment and men about. But like a complicated dance which looked effective once you’d got the steps right, it worked because people learned a pattern and then always conformed to it. And the danger of conforming to routine or categories or patterns was that, like the dancing lessons or model railways, things always went from A to B to C in an undisturbed logic. Charlie couldn’t dance and had never collected train numbers. And in the world in which he had lived for such a long time, men didn’t wear arm bands to identify themselves as the bad guys any more than they obeyed rules so that everyone would know what everyone else was doing.

The rigidity of the security pattern for the stamp exhibition immediately disturbed him, long before he isolated something that didn’t make sense. He waited for Heppert to remark upon it, but the man said nothing and so Charlie didn’t ask why the video-tape cameras that were to record everything that occurred in the exhibition had been installed in duplicate in the manner they had.

‘Good?’ asked Heppert at the end of the tour.

‘Adequate,’ said Charlie.

‘We hope more than that.’

Charlie turned on hearing the carefully modulated voice. The speaker was a tall, well tailored and coiffured man, his white hair purposely worn long, and he had that upright yet slightly languid stance necessary for the patrician appearance for which he was obviously striving.

‘Senator Kelvin Cosgrove.’ Heppert made the introduction with servility. ‘Originator of the exhibition and chairman of the organising committee…’ He turned to the politician. ‘… the representative of Lloyd’s of London,’ he finished.

‘We’ve been expecting you,’ said Cosgrove, with just the faintest trace of disappointment. Charlie withstood the senator’s examination, feeling like an under-nourished African arrival at a cotton plantation. At least the man managed to hold back from feeling his muscles or examining his teeth.

‘Satisfied?’ demanded the man. His voice clearly indicated Charlie’s subservient role: someone who had to be tolerated but accorded only the minimum of attention.

‘Seems all right,’ he said, conscious of Heppert’s wince. The man would have ulcers, Charlie knew.

Cosgrove turned and until he did so Charlie was unaware of another man standing in the shadow of the doorway.

‘Our insurers seem only moderately impressed,’ said Cosgrove condescendingly.

Heppert’s customary unease seemed to increase as the third man moved further into the room.

‘Our over-all security controller,’ he said, continuing the introductions. ‘Mr Jack Pendlebury.’

‘I haven’t noticed any accreditation from you,’ said the man abruptly.

‘No,’ agreed Charlie, ignoring the attempt at intimidation. ‘Why don’t you ask for it?’

Pendlebury stiffened and glanced almost imperceptibly towards the politician, as if he were worried at being so openly confronted.

‘May I see it?’

‘Of course,’ said Charlie, his smile purposely wide.

Charlie offered his authority from Willoughby’s firm, watching as Pendlebury studied the papers. Pendlebury’s hand had the very slightest twitch and the skin around his eyes was pinched. Not by the concentration of reading, but by pain, Charlie guessed. He got the confirmation when Pendlebury looked up at him and Charlie saw the red-veined eyes. The man had a hangover.

‘Passport,’ demanded Pendlebury.

Charlie recognised the man’s attempt at recovery. He groped through his pockets, appearing unable immediately to locate it, and just when Cosgrove began moving impatiently, produced the document for Pendlebury to compare the photograph in it with the one on Willoughby’s authorised identity card.

‘There was a letter, sent in advance,’ Charlie reminded them. ‘To both you and the organisers.’

‘Yes,’ said Pendlebury.

‘With a photograph,’ added Charlie.

Pendlebury felt into the rear pocket of his trousers and came out with his hand bunched around a wad of papers. Some of the letters and notes must have been weeks old to judge from the tattered, blackened edges. With what appeared to be surprise he discovered a five-dollar bill, his face losing its tenseness for the first time, and then located the photograph he was seeking.

‘Got it here,’ he said. Pendlebury waited, but when Charlie said nothing, went on, ‘I guess you’ll do. Seen the security?’

‘A quick tour,’ said Charlie.

Pendlebury turned, including Cosgrove in the conversation.

‘And you’re happy?’

‘I didn’t say that,’ qualified Charlie. ‘It’s impossible to guarantee security for an exhibition held in a hotel.’

He was aware of Heppert and the senator looking at him sharply, as if he were being offensive, but Pendlebury smiled again. It was a faint expression, as if the effort hurt.

‘Right,’ agreed Pendlebury.

‘It would need a clever man to steal anything from here,’ insisted Cosgrove, defensively.

‘That’s what successful crooks are, clever,’ said Pendlebury and Charlie warmed to the man, conscious that the senator was being patronised.

‘At least it’s only here for a week,’ said Charlie.

‘But in Florida for three,’ said Pendlebury. ‘Lots of time for a clever man to make some detailed plans. We’re going to have to watch ourselves.’

‘We’ve had enough rehearsals, both here and in Palm Beach,’ said Heppert. ‘In Florida we achieved complete security cover five minutes after a full-scale alert, when none of the guards was expecting it.’

‘That’s right,’ said Pendlebury. ‘And everything went like a dream. Civil police back-up came in ten minutes.’

Charlie recognised that now Pendlebury was patronising the other Pinkerton’s man. Heppert didn’t appear to realise it.

‘Is there anything you’d like to discuss with me?’ said Cosgrove to Charlie. The tone of voice indicated that the time allowed for Charlie’s audience had expired.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Charlie. The senator was the sort of man who would like to be called ‘sir’ Charlie knew, purposely avoiding the courtesy. He was fleetingly reminded of the men who had taken over the Department from Willoughby’s father and plotted his death. They’d been irritated by his lack of politeness too.

‘I’ll be in Florida, as well as here,’ said the man graciously. ‘Always available if you need me.’

‘Thank you,’ said Charlie. ‘I’ll remember that.’

The small group stood watching the senator stride regally away and when Pendlebury turned back, Charlie saw that he was smiling contemptuously. The man avoided making any open criticism.

‘Suppose we’re going to be together for a while,’ said Pendlebury, as if the awareness had only just come to him.

‘Yes,’ said Charlie.

‘So we should get to know each other?’

‘Might be an idea.’

Pendlebury looked across the foyer, to the Sir Harry bar.

‘Drink?’

‘Fine,’ agreed Charlie. For a man who looked as bad as Pendlebury, to go so early into a bar either indicated an act of supreme courage or someone long accustomed to booze.

‘Coming?’ Pendlebury asked the other Pinkerton’s man.

Heppert put his hand to his stomach, confirming Charlie’s thought about ulcers.

‘Bad stomach,’ he said. ‘Maybe another time.’

Pendlebury turned away without attempting any persuasion, leading the way, and Charlie became completely aware of the other man’s appearance. The trousers were quite shapeless and the jacket hung oddly backwards off his shoulders, as if it were trying to escape the embarrassment. From behind, Pendlebury looked like a very old elephant on his way to wherever it is elephants go to die. As he passed the jeweller’s window, Charlie caught sight of himself in the window reflection and saw that there was a self-satisfied smirk on his face. He frowned, recognising it as unjustified. He recognised something else, too. He could have been the second elephant in the line. It was easy to understand the disappointment of Senator Cosgrove, who would believe a man was as sharp as the crease in his trousers.

Pendlebury ignored the stools at the big, centre bar, choosing instead one of the side tables with large armchairs. Because it was still before noon, the bar was comparatively empty and a girl came to them almost immediately.

‘Vodka,’ ordered Pendlebury. ‘Large, just ice.’

‘Scotch,’ said Charlie. ‘With water.’

‘Read somewhere that vodka is good for avoiding hangovers,’ said Charlie. Even accepting Pendlebury’s responsibility, the behaviour at the initial meeting had surprised him. He wondered why Pendlebury found it necessary to be hostile to everyone.

‘Don’t put your faith in it,’ said Pendlebury, with feeling.

‘I don’t. Any more than I do in rehearsing against robberies.’

Charlie detected Pendlebury’s instant interest and regretted the remark. It hinted an expertise of which he didn’t particularly want the other man to be aware and was therefore careless, like smiling in jewellers’ windows. For the moment, he had decided to let them imagine he was content with the protection.

‘Tells people where to go, if anything happens,’ said Pendlebury, and Charlie was aware he was being encouraged.

‘Yes,’ he agreed, guardedly. ‘Useful for that.’

The drinks came and Charlie waited, watching. Pendlebury took up his glass but didn’t drink.

‘Worried?’ asked Charlie.

Pendlebury shrugged. ‘Like you said, you can’t guarantee complete security in a hotel. Certainly not one this size, with so many people having the right of access.’ He grinned at a sudden thought. ‘I’d be more worried if I were you. Six million dollars is a lot of money to risk losing.’

‘That’s what insurance is, risk,’ said Charlie.

‘Been at it long?’

Charlie felt the stomach tightening again. ‘Fair time,’ he said guardedly.

‘Must be interesting.’

It had to be the stock remark whenever two men sat in a bar and talked about their jobs. Yet from Pendlebury it seemed to have more point. Charlie wondered whom the man reminded him of.

‘Something like yours,’ he said easily.

‘Not really,’ said Pendlebury. ‘Jesse James and his gang are dead.’

‘Why Florida?’ demanded Charlie suddenly.

‘Florida?’

‘Why put on an exhibition such as this in Florida?’ asked Charlie. ‘I would have thought there were a hundred other cities, rather than Palm Beach, where these things would have had more appeal.’

‘You’re probably right,’ agreed Pendlebury. ‘My job is to guard them, not say where they should go. Lot of money in Palm Beach. And people with time to spend it. I guess Gosgrove thought he’d get the best response there.’

‘What’s Cosgrove like?’

Pendlebury shrugged. ‘Professional politician. Millionaire from his father’s stock market expertise. Very ambitious. Wife about fifteen years younger, who is always in the magazines and social columns…’

‘Do you like him?’

‘I haven’t got to.’

‘So you don’t?’

‘His cologne is too strong.’

Charlie smiled at the assessment. ‘Is the Breakers better than this?’

‘About the same, security-wise,’ said Pendlebury. ‘Best hotel in Palm Beach, site of all the exhibitions. We’ve installed extra electrical precautions, of course.’

‘Duplicated, like here?’

Charlie was looking intently at the other man, alert for his reaction. Pendlebury’s mottled face remained unchanged.

‘Common sense,’ he said. ‘A back-up in case one camera system malfunctions.’

‘Of course,’ said Charlie quickly. Seeming eager to cover his embarrassment at an apparently thoughtless question, he indicated the elaborately produced colour catalogue which he had carried from the exhibition room into the bar.

‘Difficult to imagine these little squares of paper having such value, isn’t it?’ he said.

‘Not really,’ said Pendlebury. He nodded towards the unseen exit from the hotel and Park Avenue beyond. ‘Take a cab to 82nd Street and you could probably find a Greek pisspot in the Metropolitan Museum of Art described as priceless.’

Charlie saw that before starting it, Pendlebury had allowed a substantial quantity of ice to melt, diluting his drink. And that his own glass was empty. The American signalled for refills from the attentive waitress.

‘Cheers,’ he said, lifting his glass. He still had his original drink, with all the melted ice.

‘Cheers,’ responded Charlie. Perhaps the man was just a slow drinker. He looked again at the bloodshot eyes; then again, perhaps he was not.

The waitress lingered. ‘How do you want to pay?’ she asked. She seemed to recognise Pendlebury.

‘Charge it to the suite, like before,’ he said, turning from the girl to Charlie. ‘Got a suite here,’ he said, needlessly. ‘It’s very comfortable.’

‘Expensive, too.’

‘Yeah, that as well,’ agreed Pendlebury. He smiled, as if offering an intimacy. ‘Glad I’m not paying.’

‘I’m not keen on these publicity receptions that are announced on the programme,’ said Charlie.

‘Organisers consider them worthwhile.’

‘I don’t.’

‘It would certainly provide the chance for anyone wanting to discover the layout,’ admitted Pendlebury.

‘Perhaps we’re being over-cautious,’ said Charlie.

For several moments Pendlebury did not reply, studying Charlie. Then he said, ‘Which is better than being too casual.’

‘I’m never that,’ said Charlie.

‘Nor am I,’ said Pendlebury and Charlie believed him.

Giuseppe Terrilli’s study was on the east of the castle, where the original chateau design had been modified to give a big-window view of the Atlantic. Normally he enjoyed the outlook. Frequently he swivelled in his chair to stare over it while discussing some point with the two men who ran the non-public part of his operation, whom he knew to be informants to the inner council on everything that he did.

It was because of that awareness that today Terrilli ignored the sea, concentrating on the figures before him, asking exactly the right questions and isolating exactly the right weaknesses, wanting to impress them with the efficiency that he knew had made him a near legend within the organisation. They could never know how close he had come to making a ridiculous mistake. But he knew and the knowledge frightened him. It would have shown a weakness of which Giuseppe Terrilli had always felt he was incapable. For the first time in fifteen years, he had considered cancelling the weekly review of the forthcoming shipments and of the distribution of that which had been landed during the preceding week because he had feared he would be late in New York for a preview of the Romanov Collection.

‘It’s been a good fortnight,’ said Tony Santano. ‘Not one interception.’

In an earlier era or a different location, Anthony Santano would have had the nickname ‘Big Tony’, with his six-foot-four frame and build like a boxer. But Terrilli forbade the theatricality of New York; the organisation there seemed to believe that Damon Runyon was still alive and eating nightly at Sardi’s.

‘Which means a twenty million three-quarters profit,’ said the third man. John Patridge was a thin, bespectacled, aesthetic scion of a New England family going back almost two centuries, a graduate from the Harvard Business School with a genius for figures that would have earned him a fortune in Wall Street had the organisation not paid him more to keep their books in perfect order. He had been put into Florida by men never surprised at the fickleness of human behaviour, to guard against any sudden omission by Terrilli to make full account of the activities for which he was responsible. To report untruthfully one boat as being seized and to place its cargo on the streets in a private deal could mean a profit, after cutting the dope, of $9,000,000, and that was a considerable amount of money for one man, even in the cosmic amounts in which they dealt.

‘It’s going very well,’ said Terrilli. He was always careful not to appear too enthusiastic, because his was the planning and the forethought which made everything so successful and enthusiasm might indicate conceit.

‘Because it’s so well organised,’ said Patridge, always the more sycophantic of the two.

‘If there’s no other business,’ Terrilli cut in, ‘I have an appointment.’

The accountant and Santano looked up, curious at the abruptness.

‘I’m going to New York,’ added Terrilli.

‘Business?’ asked Santano, irritated that he had not been either warned or consulted.

‘Yes,’ said Terrilli. ‘I’m going to look at some stamps, too. Be away for a couple of days.’

The Terrilli Industries executive jet was making its arrival down the slip runway to the private section of La Guardia Airport by the time Charlie Muffin got back to his room at the Pierre Hotel in Manhattan. He was a little stiff-legged from the amount of whisky he had consumed, but otherwise unaffected. He’d paced the third and fourth drinks, so that he and Pendlebury had been level pegging, and in the end it had been the American who suffered more. Charlie took off his jacket and shoes, lying back upon the bed, carefully moving his toes and examining the feet that seemed to have so much trouble being made comfortable. Pendlebury was a piss-assed security man, nothing more, he told himself. Why was it then that he still felt unsure?

The telephone rang jarringly in the room, making him jump and shattering his reflections.

‘Guess who?’ said a bright, female voice and for several moments Charlie lay with the telephone in his hand, trying to identify it.

‘Who?’ he asked, defeated.

There was a mew of feigned disappointment.

‘Clarissa,’ said the voice. ‘Clarissa Willoughby. I could hardly believe my luck when Rupert told me you’d be in New York at the same time.’

‘You’re here?’ said Charlie vacuously.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘And guess what?’

‘What?’ said Charlie. She’d love the quiz games with which American television was littered.

‘We’re staying at the same hotel. I’m just two floors above you. Isn’t that terrific?’

‘Terrific,’ agreed Charlie. He wondered if she’d detected the absence of enthusiasm. She would have ensured the hotel reservation, he guessed, realising why he hadn’t been able to stay at the Waldorf.

Suddenly Charlie’s mind wasn’t on the conversation with the underwriter’s wife. He knew why Pendlebury made him uneasy and the realisation increased his uncertainty. Looking at Pendlebury had been like looking at a mirror-image of himself.

‘Why aren’t you talking to me?’ complained Clarissa.

‘I just had a thought,’ said Charlie.

‘Was it important?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Charlie. ‘I hope not.’