Here Comes Charlie M

FIFTEEN

Because the northern extension of the Tate Gallery had once been the Queen Alexandra Hospital, occupied by hundreds of people, the sewer complex immediately beneath it was much larger than the other outlets that served the area. They had gone in through a manhole in Islip Street, Snare leading. He was still ahead, guiding the safebreaker, the miner’s lamp he wore perfectly illuminating the huge cylindrical passageways.

‘What a bloody smell!’ protested Johnny. He moved clumsily, feet either side of the central channel, trying to avoid going into the water.

‘In Paris, visiting the sewers is considered a tourist attraction,’ said Snare. The man was right; it did stink.

‘So’s eating frogs,’ sneered Johnny. Like Snare, he was wearing a hiker’s rucksack, bulging with material it had again taken over a week to purchase. In addition, he hauled a collapsible sledge upon which was strapped the drilling motor and heavier equipment. The light from Snare’s lamp was sufficient for them both, so Johnny hadn’t bothered to turn his on. There was a sudden sound of scurried scratching, and Johnny grabbed out for Snare.

‘Rats,’ the larger man identified the noise, shrugging the hand away.

Johnny snapped on his light and in his anxiety went in up to his ankle in the water. Snare smiled at the outraged gasp.

‘Can’t stand rats,’ said the safebreaker. He shivered. ‘Let’s hurry up and get out of here.’

Snare ignored the other man, trying to play his light on to the Department of the Environment plan he’d taken from the sidepocket of his bulging pack. The gallery extension had meant there had been a lot of plans available, he thought gratefully. The sewer route had been marked on the chart in red, with notes on the alarm system and precautions installed overhead.

He heard another splash, an immediate curse and then felt Johnny pressing close to him. Snare pulled away, recalling a medical record he had studied in one of the police files and the assessment why Packer’s downfalls invariably involved burly young men of limited intelligence.

‘Jesus,’ said Johnny, looking over his shoulder. ‘Never worked with anyone who managed to get hold of the stuff you do … it’s like a bloody guide-book.’

‘Grot a friend,’ said Snare. It was the sort of remark the man would remember when he’d been arrested. Might even cause further embarrassment to Willoughby’s firm if the man talked about drawings of the sort that insurers might possess.

The tunnel surround began to get smaller and they had to proceed at a crouch.

‘Now we’re right beneath the original building,’ said Snare. Positioning Packer where the narrowing began, Snare carefully measured along the slimy wall, making a mark where he had to begin digging and then insisted on measuring again, to avoid any miscalculation.

He brought another plan from the rucksack, a detailed diagram of all the alarm installations and wiring.

‘Where the hell did you get that?’ exclaimed Packer.

‘Same friend,’ said Snare. Confidently he traced their entry hole on to the sewer wall.

‘We’ll have to work cautiously,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘There are some vibration alarms in the flooring.’

Snare operated the drill, as he had in Brighton. Again the tool was rubber cushioned, reducing both the noise and the recoil. The man worked very gently, discarding the bits the moment he thought they were becoming blunt and needed a sharper edge to cut into the concrete and brickwork. Frequently he referred to the wiring plan, using a rule to measure the depth of his hole. After about thirty minutes, he put aside the drill, chipping instead with a chisel and rubber-headed hammer, constantly feeling in and scraping away rubble and plaster by hand.

He found the first cluster of wires after an hour. Then he rejected even the hammer, scratching an inch at a time with just the chisel head. When sufficient room had been made, he clamped the carefully prepared bypass leads, with their alligator clips, at either side of the wire cluster and then cut through.

Johnny sighed.

‘No sound,’ he said.

‘There wouldn’t have been,’ Snare answered. ‘This alarm only operates in the Scotland Yard control room.’

Because the adhesive tape they had used for the purpose at Brighton would not have stuck to the slime of the sewer walls, Snare knocked securing hooks into the bricks to hold the bypass leads out of the way.

He used the drill again now, still stopping every few minutes for measurement. It was a further hour before he turned the drill off and began gently prodding at the hole. Suddenly there was a clattering fall of bricks and concrete different from the rest and Snare turned, smiling at the other man.

‘The floor,’ he said. ‘We’re through.’

It took thirty minutes before the hole was big enough for them to clamber up, hauling the equipment behind them.

‘Thank Christ we’re out of there,’ said Johnny sincerely. The revulsion shook his body.

Snare motioned him to silence, then checked his watch.

‘An hour and forty minutes before there’s any guard tour,’ he whispered. ‘But I don’t want any unnecessary sound.’

He’d turned off his miner’s headset, using now a large hand-torch with an adjustable cowl, so that the light beam could be accurately controlled. Another plan came from the rucksack.

‘The Duneven room is above us and in that direction,’ indicated Snare, to his left. ‘The photographic room and restaurant is to the right and the stairs up to the ground floor should be immediately behind you.’

Johnny turned, using his own torch, but Snare stopped him.

‘Don’t forget the bags,’ he said.

From the sledge they were leaving near the hole, Johnny took a number of plastic containers, then walked towards the stairway.

At the bottom he paused, awaiting Snare’s lead.

‘The first six are pressure activated,’ said Snare.

He reached past the other man, laying a retractable plank stiffened at either edge by steel rods up to the eighth step.

‘Be careful,’ he warned.

Hand lightly against the hand-rail for balance, Johnny inched up the ramp. The door at the top was locked and Johnny knelt before it, torch only inches away.

‘Piece of cake,’ he declared. From his pack he took the dentist’s pliers which he had modified since the Brighton robbery, so that the jaws could be locked. Into them he clamped a key blank and impressed it into the lock. Against the impressions he sketched a skeleton and within minutes had shaped a key from steel wire. The lock clicked back on his second attempt.

‘Alarm at the top,’ cautioned Snare. He pushed past, the magnetised bypass already in his hand. He slipped it over the break and then eased the door open. From his pack he took a wooden wedge, driving it beneath the door edge to prevent it accidentally slamming and disturbing the leads.

Just inside the main hall, Snare went to a panel set into the wall, gesturing for Johnny to follow.

‘The first of the two alarm consoles,’ he said. ‘Open it.’

Johnny used a wire probe this time, easing the tumblers back one by one.

Snare had a plan devoted entirely to the wiring system that suddenly cobwebbed in front of them. He made Johnny hold it, freeing both his hands, and for fifteen minutes worked intently, muttering to himself, fixing jump leads and clamps.

‘There,’ he said, finally. ‘Castrated.’

‘You said two?’ queried Johnny.

‘This is the obvious one,’ said Snare. ‘The other one is identical but independently wired and concealed.’

It was a floor panel, just inside the cloakroom.

‘Clever,’ said Johnny, admiringly.

‘Unless you know the secrets,’ smiled Snare. Practised now, it didn’t take him as long to neutralise the second system.

‘What now?’ asked Johnny.

‘Now,’ said Snare. ‘We just help ourselves if not to the actual crown jewels, as near as makes no difference.’

He paused, checking the time.

‘And there’s still forty minutes before the attendant patrol.’

The Russian collection was in the main exhibition room, every piece under glass. They stopped, as the torches picked out the jewels of the Fabergé reproductions.

‘What’s that?’ demanded Johnny.

‘A miniature jewelled train,’ said Snare. ‘It’s usually kept in the Armoury, in Moscow, along with those Easter egg ornaments in the next case …’

‘Imagine those in a necklace,’ said Johnny, wistfully.

‘Beautiful,’ agreed Snare. Pity you’d never have a chance to wear it, he thought, cruelly.

‘What sort of people have jewelled trains and Easter eggs?’ mused Johnny.

‘Rich people,’ said Snare. ‘Very rich people.’

‘Didn’t they all get killed though?’ queried Johnny.

Snare frowned at the qualification.

‘Only because they were too stupid to realise the mistakes they were making,’ he said.

He moved forward, gesturing to Johnny for the bags he had taken from the sledge. Against the side of each exhibition case he affixed a handle, with adhesive suckers at either tip, then sectioned the glass with a diamond-headed cutter. Gently, to avoid noise, he placed each piece of glass alongside the stand, put each exhibit into a protective chamois leather holder and then, finally, into a bigger container.

Apart from the eggs and the train, Snare took the copies of the Imperial Crown surmounted by the Balas ruby, the Imperial Orb, topped by its sapphire and the Russian-eagle-headed Imperial Sceptre, complete with its miniature of the Orloff diamond.

Snare lifted the bags, testing their weight.

‘Enough,’ he decided.

He turned, looking at Johnny.

‘You know what you’ve just done?’ he demanded.

‘What?’

‘Carried out the jewel robbery of the century,’ said Snare, simply.

‘Now all we’ve got to do is sell them back,’ said Johnny. And then let Herbie Pie and all those other doubting bastards know. But discreetly, so they wouldn’t think he was boasting.

‘That’ll be no trouble,’ said Snare, confidently. He was glad there wouldn’t be any more burglaries, he decided. From now on he could sit back and watch all the others do the work, enjoy the sport of watching Charlie squirm.

Johnny humped the straps of the bags comfortably on to his shoulders, then followed Snare’s lead down the stairs. Neither spoke until they reached the entry hole in the basement floor. Johnny stood, gazing apprehensively into the blackness.

‘I’d very happily give back one of those funny eggs to avoid having to go back down there,’ he said plaintively.

Snare dropped through first, turning on the beam of his helmet to provide some light. Johnny lowered the jewellery first, then wriggled through, hanging for a moment before letting himself go. He misjudged the drop, stumbling up to his knees in the drainage channel.

‘Shit,’he said.

‘That’s right,’ agreed Snare.

They had almost finished the meal in their Moscow apartment when Berenkov apologised, explaining the cause of his silence to Valentina.

‘There couldn’t be any doubt?’ asked the woman.

Berenkov shook his head, positively.

‘Comrade General Kalenin was very sure – they’ve definitely found Charlie.’

She shook her head sadly.

‘Poor man.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Poor man.’

‘Why torture him?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said.

‘Just like children … cruel children.’

‘Yes,’ he accepted. ‘It’s often very childlike.’

‘But in the end they’ll kill him?’

‘Yes,’ he said, saddened by the question. ‘They will have to do that.’

Valentina didn’t speak for several minutes. Then she said, ‘Is he married?’

‘I think so.’

‘It’s her I feel sorry for,’ said the woman. ‘Perhaps more than for him. He knew the risks, after all.’

‘Yes,’ said Berenkov. ‘I suppose he did.’

‘I wonder what she’ll do?’ said Valentina, reflectively.

‘You should know, perhaps more than anybody,’ Berenkov reminded her impulsively.

His wife looked at him sorrowfully.

‘I’d just weep,’ she said. She lingered, unsure of the admission.

Then she added: ‘Because I wouldn’t be brave enough to kill myself.’

SIXTEEN

Onslow Smith had taken over the larger conference chamber in the American embassy in London’s Grosvenor Square. He stood on a dais at one end of the room, a projection screen tight against the wall behind him. While he waited for everyone to become seated, he fingered the control button connected to the screening machine that would beam the pictures through the tiny square cut into the far wall.

The diminutive figure of Garson Ruttgers bustled into the room, moving towards the seat which Smith had positioned just off the raised area but still in a spot separating him from the other operatives, a considerate recognition of the importance he had once enjoyed.

Immediately behind sat Braley, clipboard on his knee. It was a great pity, decided the Director, that the Vienna episode had marked the end of any promotional prospects for the man. Braley appeared to have a fine analytical mind and worked without panic, despite the obvious nervous reaction to stress. He’d arranged everything for that day’s meeting and done it brilliantly; one of the few people affected by Charlie Muffin who would easily make the transition to a planner’s desk.

One of the few people, he repeated to himself, staring out into the room. Eighty men, he counted. Eighty operatives who had been trained to Grade 1 effectiveness; men from whom the Agency could have expected ten, maybe fifteen years of top-class service. All wiped out by Charlie Muffin. And Wilberforce expected him to sit back and do damn all except be the cheerleader. The apparent success of the early part of the entrapment had gone to the British Director’s head, he decided.

‘Shall we begin?’

The room quietened at the invitation. Smith stood with his hand against the back of the chair, looking down at them.

‘Some of you,’ he said, ‘may have guessed already the point of drafting you all to London …’

He waited, unsure at the harshness of the next part of the prepared text. It was necessary, he decided. It would remind them of what they had lost and bring to the surface the proper feelings about the man responsible.

‘… because you all, unfortunately, shared in the operation that ended your active field careers.’

Ruttgers, who had been initially grateful for the seating arrangement, moved uncomfortably in front of the men he had personally led to disaster, realising too late its drawbacks. Needing the activity, he lighted the predictable cigarette.

‘Because of this man …’ announced Smith, dramatically. He pressed the control button. A greatly enlarged picture, several times bigger than life, of Charlie Muffin appeared on the screen. It had been taken in the churchyard. Several times Smith pressed the button, throwing a kaleidoscope of photographs on the wall, shots of Charlie Muffin in Zürich, coming through passport control at London airport, outside his Brighton house and entering and leaving the offices of Rupert Willoughby.

‘Taken,’ said Smith, ‘by the British.’

He paused to let the murmur which went through the room settle into silence. It was like baiting animals, bringing them to the point where their only desire was to fight, thought the Director.

‘Charlie Muffin has been found,’ he declared.

He waited again for the announcement to be assimilated.

‘Found,’ he picked up, ‘by a very painstaking but rewarding operation conducted by the British …’

There was complete silence in the room, realised Smith. The concentration upon what he was saying was absolute. He sighed, shuffling the prepared speech in his hand.

‘I wish to make it quite clear at the outset that since the discovery of the man, the handling of the affair had been jointly handled by the British and ourselves.’

He appeared to lose a sheet of notes, then stared up at them.

‘At very high level,’ he emphasised.

He waited for them to assess the importance, then went on: ‘A certain course had been decided upon, a course of which you’ve no need to be aware …’

Harsh again, recognised Smith. But necessary, a reminder of just how far down they’d all been relegated. After this they’d be clerks at Langley until retirement, with only the Virginia countryside to relieve the boredom.

‘It is sufficient for you to know that no immediate action – open action, anyway – is being taken against Charlie Muffin …’

The noise started again, the sound of surprise this time.

‘Which does, of course,’ continued the C.I.A. chief, ‘create a danger.’

He stopped once more. He’d really fucked it up, he decided honestly.

The response from the room was growing louder and several men were trying to catch his attention, to ask questions.

‘And that is why I have gathered you here,’ said Smith quickly, trying to subdue the clamour. ‘The British consider the surveillance they have established is sufficient and certainly, thus far, it has proven to be. But I have no intention whatsoever of this Agency taking a subservient role in the continuing operation envisaged by the British.’

Smith sipped from a glass of water and in the gap a man at the front blurted: ‘You mean we are going to stop working with the British?’

Smith smiled, the timing of the question over-riding any annoyance at the interruption.

‘I intend giving the impression of continued co-operation,’ he said. ‘Before this meeting is over, you will all be given dossiers containing every item of information about Charlie Muffin that the British have so far been able to assemble … it is quite extensive. With the benefit of that information, we are going to establish our own, independent operation. When the shit hits the fan, I still want us wearing clean white suits.’

The persistent questioner in the front row pulled forward again.

‘He will be eliminated, sir, won’t he? Charlie Muffin will be eliminated?’

It was almost a plea, thought Smith. He moved to speak, but Ruttgers responded ahead of him, emotion momentarily washing away his awareness of his reduced role.

‘Oh, yes,’ said the ex-Director, fervently. ‘He’ll be eliminated. I promise you that.’

‘But not until I’ve given the explicit order,’ instructed Smith.

Charlie stood at the lounge window of the Brighton house, gazing out at the tree-lined avenue. The uniformed policeman who had passed twice was standing at the corner now, stamping his feet against the early evening chill. Where, wondered Charlie, were the others?

He turned into the room, staring at the bottles grouped on the table by the far wall. No, he decided easily. He didn’t need it. Not any more.

‘What I need,’ he told himself, ‘is for them to over-reach themselves. Just once.’

And Edith, he thought. He wanted her by him very much. But not yet. He had to get a clearer indication of what was happening before putting her to any more risk than she already faced. Poor Edith.

SEVENTEEN

Charlie arrived in Rupert Willoughby’s office an hour after making the telephone call for the confirmation he scarcely needed. The underwriter greeted him with an attitude that swung between nervousness and anger. At last, thought Charlie. He hoped the growing awareness wouldn’t affect the man’s memory of his father.

‘You knew we’d covered the exhibition?’ challenged Willoughby immediately. Anger first, Charlie accepted.

‘It was obvious,’ said Charlie. ‘Once I heard of the robbery. And more particularly, what was stolen and from whom.’

‘What, does it mean?’

‘That the department has known from the very beginning of our meeting. That they know I’ve put money into your firm. That they had you under permanent observation for as long as they’ve been watching me. And that in one operation they intend hitting back at everyone.’

Willoughby nodded, as if agreeing some private thought. His throat was moving, jerkily.

‘No wonder my father was so frightened in the last year,’ he said.

‘I warned you,’ Charlie reminded him.

Willoughby looked at him, but said nothing.

‘Tell me about the cover,’ said Charlie.

Willoughby pulled a file towards him, running his hand through the papers.

‘Completely ordinary,’ he said. ‘For an exhibition of this value, the government always goes on to the London market, through Lloyd’s. For us, it’s usually a copper-bottomed profit. Security is absolute but because of the value and alleged risk, we can impose a high premium.’

‘How much cover did you offer?’

‘Two and a half million,’ said Willoughby.

‘What happens now?’

‘Claim to be filed. And then the squabbling begins, to gain time.’

‘You expect a sell back?’

Willoughby looked surprised.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘That’s what always happens in a case like this.’

‘What percentage?’

‘Varies. Usually ten.’

Charlie laughed, appearing genuinely amused.

‘Two hundred and fifty thousand,’ he said. ‘Exactly what I put in. They don’t mean me to misunderstand for a moment, do they?’

‘Is it significant?’ asked Willoughby.

‘Very,’ said Charlie. To continue would mean admitting he was a thief. The man deserved the honesty, he decided.

‘They want to recover $500,000 from me. Plus interest,’ he said. ‘They got almost half from the Brighton robbery. This would be the remainder.’

Willoughby sat, waiting. It was impossible to judge from the expression on his face whether there was any criticism.

‘You told me once you hadn’t done anything criminal,’ he accused Charlie.

The anger was on the ascendancy, Charlie decided.

‘They set out, quite deliberately, to kill me,’ said Charlie. ‘That was the penalty I imposed upon them for being abandoned … abandoned like your father was. He tried to fight back against them as well, remember. We just chose different ways of doing it. Mine worked better than his. They lost more than money.’

‘What happens next?’ asked the underwriter.

‘I don’t know,’ confessed Charlie. ‘I’d guess they’re getting ready to kill me now.’

‘You’re not worried enough,’ said the younger man in sudden awareness. ‘Boxed in like this, you should be terrified. Like I am.’

‘I’m not,’ confirmed Charlie easily. ‘The Russian robbery was the error … the one I was waiting for them to make …’

Willoughby shook his head.

‘Your father was very good at this sort of thing,’ said Charlie. ‘He’d do it to get someone whom he suspected to disclose themselves completely.’

‘You’re not making yourself clear,’ complained the underwriter.

‘I know the pattern,’ said Charlie. ‘It must be either Wilberforce or Cuthbertson or both. And I learned from your father a bloody sight better than they did.’

Willoughby gazed back, unconvinced. It was the first time the confidence, almost bordering on conceit, had been obvious, he realised. Another thought came, with frightening clarity. He’d been a fool to become involved, no matter what his feelings for the men who had destroyed his father.

‘You’ve got to get out,’ he said.

‘Oh, no,’ answered Charlie. ‘You don’t survive looking constantly over your shoulder. I’ve tried for the past two years and it’s almost driven me mad.’

‘You don’t have an alternative.’

‘I have,’ said Charlie. He considered what he needed to say but still began badly, speaking as the thoughts came to him.

‘I told you at our first meeting there was a risk of your being compromised,’ he said. ‘And you have been …’

‘And I said then that I was prepared to accept that,’ interrupted the underwriter in a vain attempt at bravery.

‘Because you didn’t really know what it was going to be like,’ argued Charlie. ‘Now it’s different. The robbery was directed against you and your firm. And because of it, other underwriters could be out of pocket, coming to a buy-back settlement. From this firm all that is at risk at the moment is the money I’ve deposited. So this time you’ve been let off with a warning …’

‘What do you want?’ Willoughby interrupted.

‘The sort of help which, if it goes wrong, could mean that next time there won’t be any warning,’ said Charlie bluntly.

‘I’ll hear you out,’ said Willoughby guardedly.

Charlie stood and began pacing the office, talking as he moved.

‘The misjudgment they’ve made is one that your father never allowed,’ lectured Charlie. ‘They’ve given me the opportunity to react.’

‘I still don’t think you’ve got any choice,’ said Willoughby.

‘That’s it,’ agreed Charlie. ‘And that is what Wilberforce and whoever else is working with him will be thinking.’

Charlie stopped walking, thoughts moving sideways.

‘Buying back the proceeds of unusual or large robberies isn’t particularly uncommon, is it?’ he asked suddenly.

‘Not really,’ said Willoughby. ‘Although obviously we don’t make a point of announcing it. There’s usually some token police objection, as well. Although for political reasons, I don’t think that will be very strong in this case.’

‘So there are people in this office who wouldn’t regard it as odd if they were asked to behave in a somewhat bizarre way?’ Charlie hurried on. ‘They’d accept it could be part of some such arrangement?’

‘I don’t think we’ve the right to put other people to the sort of danger you seem to think exists.’

‘It’s not dangerous – not this part,’ Charlie assured him. ‘I just want them as decoys.’

‘I have your promise on that?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Charlie.

‘Then yes,’ agreed Willoughby. ‘There are people who wouldn’t think it at all strange. They might even enjoy it.’

‘And what about you?’

‘I’m not enjoying any of it any more,’ admitted Willoughby, with his customary honesty.

‘Well?’ asked Charlie nervously.

The underwriter considered the invitation to withdraw.

‘Are you going to ask me to do anything illegal? Or involve the firm in any illegality?’ he asked, repeating his paramount concern.

‘Definitely not.’

‘I must have your solemn undertaking.’

‘You have it.’

‘Then I’ll help,’ said Willoughby. Quickly, he added: ‘With a great deal of reluctance.’

With the number of friends he had, decided Charlie, he could hold a party in a telephone box. And still have room for the band.

‘Excellent,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Now I think we should celebrate.’

‘Celebrate?’ questioned Willoughby, bewildered.

‘As publicly as possible.’

‘I wish I knew what was going on,’ protested the underwriter.

‘It’s called survival,’ said Charlie, cheerfully.

It was a tense, hostile encounter, different – although for opposing reasons – from what either the Americans or Wilberforce had anticipated when Smith and Ruttgers had stormed from the office less than twenty-four hours before.

‘Well?’ insisted Smith.

‘It isn’t what I expected,’ conceded Wilberforce, reluctantly.

‘Isn’t what you expected!’ echoed Smith, etching the disgust into his voice. ‘At this moment, Charlie Muffin should be trying to disappear into the woodwork!’

He stood up, moving to a sidetable where copies of the photographs had been laid out. He picked them up, one by one, as he spoke.

‘Instead of which,’ he said, displaying them to everyone in the room, ‘he’s practically advertising his presence from the rooftops, drinking champagne at the Savoy until he can hardly stand and then occupying the centre table at the river-view restaurant for a lunch that took almost three hours!’

‘He’s very clever,’ said Cuthbertson, in his wet, sticky voice. ‘We shouldn’t forget he’s very clever.’

‘We shouldn’t forget anything,’ agreed Smith. ‘Any more than we should have forgotten the point of this operation.’

‘It’s not been forgotten,’ said Wilberforce stiffly.

‘Just endangered,’ hit back the American Director. ‘God knows how badly.’

The Russian robbery had been in England, he thought suddenly. At the moment there was nothing to prove any American involvement. That was how it was going to stay.

‘We can’t eliminate him, not now,’ said Cuthbertson. ‘Not until we discover the reason for his extraordinary behaviour.’

‘Of course we can’t kill him,’ accepted Smith, careless of his irritation.

‘What do you think it means?’ demanded Wilberforce, of Braley.

Braley considered the question with his customary discomfort.

‘That there’s something we don’t know about … despite all the checks and investigations, there’s obviously something we overlooked … something that makes Charlie confident enough to act as he’s doing.’

Braley blinked at his superiors, worried at the open criticism.

‘I’ve always warned of that possibility,’ Wilberforce tried to recover. ‘That was the point of the bank entry in the first place, don’t forget.’

Smith looked at the other Director in open contempt.

‘It could just be a bluff,’ said Snare.

‘It could be anything,’ said Smith. ‘That’s the whole damned trouble. We just don’t know.’

‘The Russians are upset,’ said Cuthbertson, mildly. The first time anything had gone wrong and Wilberforce was unsettled, he saw. Practically gouging the pipe in half. He smiled, uncaring that the other man detected the expression. Always had thought he could do the job better than anybody else.

‘What’s happened?’ asked Smith.

Wilberforce looked sourly at his one-time chief before replying.

‘Formal note of protest to our ambassador in Moscow,’ he reported. ‘The Russian ambassador here calling at his own request upon the Foreign Secretary and two questions tabled in the House of Commons by some publicity-conscious M.P.s.’

‘Hardly more than you expected,’ retorted Smith. No one seemed to realise how serious it was, he thought.

‘We decided upon a course of action,’ said Wilberforce, pushing the calmness into his voice. ‘So far every single thing has proceeded exactly as it was planned. Certainly what the man did today was surprising. But that’s all it is, a surprise. We mustn’t risk everything by attempting ill-considered improvisations.’

‘You know, of course,’ said Smith, ‘that after that lunch he booked into the Savoy?’

‘Yes,’ said Wilberforce, the irritation returning.

‘Another assumed name?’ asked Cuthbertson.

Damn the man, thought Wilberforce. The former Director knew the answer as well as any of them.

‘No,’ he admitted. ‘He seemed to take great care to register as Charles Muffin.’

EIGHTEEN

Charlie knew he had registered at the hotel at exactly 3.45 in the afternoon. That concluding act of a flamboyant performance, using his real name, would have confused them sufficiently for at least a two-hour discussion, he estimated. Early evening then. And it would have taken more than twenty-four hours from the moment of decision, even if it had been made in the daytime when people were available, for the necessary warrants and authorisations and then the installation of engineers to put any listening device on the telephone in his hotel room.

Even so, he still went immediately after breakfast to the Savoy foyer to book the call to his Zürich apartment from the small exchange by the lounge stairs, then insisted on taking it in one of the booths from which he could watch the operator.

The first conversation with Edith was abrupt, lasting little more than a minute. Charlie allowed her half an hour to reach the Zürich telephone exchange. She was waiting by one of the incoming booths when he made the second call.

‘So you think the apartment here will be monitored?’ she said immediately.

‘Probably.’

‘The robbery wasn’t a coincidence, then?’

He smiled to himself at her insistence on an admission. She never liked losing arguments.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Of course not. I was trying to stop you becoming too frightened.’

‘You really thought that possible?’

He could detect how strident her voice was. He didn’t answer, refusing to argue.

‘What else happened?’ she demanded.

Briefly, Charlie outlined the details of the Russian robbery and the effect any settlement would have upon Willoughby’s firm.

‘They know everything about you, Charlie. Everything. You’re going to get killed.’

The assertion blurted from her and he heard her voice catch at the other end.

‘Edith,’ he said patiently, ‘I know a way out.’

‘There isn’t a way out, Charlie,’ she said. ‘Stop being such a bloody fool.’

He sighed, fighting against the irritation in his voice.

‘Did you call to say goodbye, just like you said goodbye to Sir Archibald before you left for Vienna to begin this fucking mess?’ she said desperately.

She’d been too long alone, Charlie realised. Now all the fears and doubts were firmly embedded in her mind and refusing to leave. And Edith shouldn’t swear, he thought. She paraded the words artificially, like a child trying to shock a new schoolteacher.

‘I called to say I loved you,’ said Charlie.

The tirade stopped, with the abruptness of a slammed door.

‘Oh, Christ, Charlie,’ she moaned.

He winced at the pain in her voice. She would be crying, he knew.

‘I mean it,’ he said.

‘I know you do.’

‘I love you and I’m going to get us out of all this. We’ll find another place …’

‘… to hide?’ she accused him.

‘Has it been that bad?’

‘It’s been terrible, Charlie. And you know it. And you’d never be able to make it any different, even if you got away from it now.’

He had no argument to put against that, Charlie realised.

‘You should have told me how you felt … before now,’ he said.

‘What good would it have done?’

None, he accepted. She was right. As she had been about the drinking and the damned cemetery and everything else.

‘I’m sorry, Edith,’ he said.

‘So am I, Charlie,’ she said, unhelpfully.

‘I need your help,’ said Charlie. At least, he thought, she’d have something more than fear to occupy her mind.

‘Of course,’ she said. Depression flattened her voice.

‘We’ll need the other passports,’ he said. ‘Now that they know our identity the ones we’ve got aren’t any good, not any more.’

He heard her laugh, an empty sound.

‘For when you’ve beaten them all, Charlie?’ she asked sadly.

‘We’re going to try, for God’s sake,’ he said. The shout would carry beyond the box, but he knew he had to break through the lassitude of defeat.

‘Yes,’ she agreed, trying to force a briskness into her voice. ‘At least we must try.’

The effort failed; she was convinced of failure, he realised.

‘Do you have a pen and paper?’

‘Of course.’

‘I want you to draw the passports from your bank and then travel, by ferry, to England.’

He paused.

‘Yes?’ she prompted. The dullness was still evident.

‘Hire a car,’ he continued. ‘Then set out at your own pace, touring around the countryside.’

‘Charlie …?’ she began, but he stopped her.

‘Wait,’ he said. ‘But I want you every third night to be at these hotels …’

Patiently he recited from an A.A. guide book the first listing and then the hotel once removed in case the initial choice was full in towns selected from a carefully calculated, sixty-mile radius of London. It took a long time because Charlie insisted she read them back to him, to ensure there was no mistake.

‘Start from Oxford,’ he concluded, ‘the day after tomorrow and go in order of the towns as I’ve given them to you.’

‘And just wait until you contact me at any one of the hotels, always on the third day?’ she anticipated.

‘That’s right.’

‘Sounds very simple,’ she said and he started to smile, hoping at last for a change in her attitude.

‘There’s just one thing, Charlie,’ she added.

‘Yes?’

‘What happens after a month, when I’ve gone around and around and you haven’t contacted me … haven’t contacted me because you’re lying dead in some ditch somewhere?’

Her voice switchbacked and she struggled to a halt.

‘I don’t expect to be lying dead somewhere,’ he said.

‘But what if you are?’ she insisted. ‘I’ve got to know, for Christ’s sake!’

Very soon she would be crying, he knew. He hoped she was in one of the end boxes at the Zürich exchange where there would be some concealment from the high wall.

‘Then it will be Rupert who calls you,’ he admitted, reluctantly.

For several minutes there was complete silence.

‘It would mean we’d never see each other again, Charlie.’

She was fighting against the emotion, he realised, carefully choosing the words before she spoke.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Funny, isn’t it,’ she went on, straining to keep her voice even. ‘That never really registered with me, the day you left to go to London. But that could be it; the last time. And you didn’t kiss me, when you left.’

‘I said I don’t expect to be lying dead somewhere,’ he repeated, desperately.

‘What would I do, Charlie?’ she pleaded. ‘I’ve always had you.’

Now it was his voice that was flat, without expression. It wouldn’t be the answer she wanted, he knew.

‘You haven’t done anything wrong,’ he said. ‘Not to them, I mean. So they wouldn’t try to hurt you.’

‘So I could come safely back here, to an apartment where you’d never be again and to a bed in which you’d never sleep or touch me and …’

Grief washed over the bitterness.

‘… and live happily ever after,’ she finished badly, through the sobs.

‘Please, Edith,’ he said.

He waited, wincing at her attempts to recover.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, finally. ‘I can’t help blaming you and I know all the time that it’s not your fault … not in the beginning, anyway.’

‘We can still win,’ he insisted.

‘You really believe that, don’t you?’ she challenged. ‘You can’t lose that bloody conceit, no matter what happens to you.’

If I did, thought Charlie, then I’d be slumped weeping in a telephone box.

‘I mean it,’ he tried again, avoiding another confrontation.

‘I’ll be at Oxford,’ she sighed, resigned to the plan.

‘I love you, Edith,’ he said again.

‘Charlie.’

‘What?’

‘If … if you’re right … if you manage it … promise me something.’

‘What?’

‘You’ll tell me that more often.’

‘Every day,’ he said, too eagerly.

‘Not every day,’ she qualified. ‘Just more than you have in the past.’

The telephone operator looked up at him, eyebrows raised, when Charlie left the box. It had been very hot in the tiny cubicle, he realised. His shirt was wet against his back.

‘Thirty-five minutes,’ said the man. ‘It would have been far more comfortable in your room.’

‘Probably,’ agreed Charlie.

Edith wouldn’t have left the booth in Zürich yet, he knew. She’d be crying.

The pipe stem snapped, a sudden cracking sound in the silent room.

‘Sure?’ asked Cuthbertson.

‘Positive,’ said Wilberforce.

‘Why would the Americans impose their own surveillance?’

‘Because they don’t trust ours. Probably don’t trust us, either. No reason why they should.’

‘They won’t kill him?’ demanded Cuthbertson, worriedly.

‘No,’ Wilberforce assured him. ‘Not until they’ve found out why he’s doing these things.’

‘So what are we going to do?’

‘Nothing,’ said the British Director. ‘It might be a useful safeguard.’

The man was bewildered by Charlie Muffin’s attitude, Cuthbertson knew. Served him right; always had been too conceited by half. He coughed, clearing the permanently congested throat.

‘Not going quite as we expected,’ suggested Cuthbertson.

‘No,’ admitted Wilberforce.

Upon whom, wondered Cuthbertson, would the man try to put the responsibility this time?

NINETEEN

The lunch with Willoughby was as open as that of the previous day, but kept to a much tighter schedule. For that reason they ate at the Ritz, because the bank Charlie had carefully chosen was a private one less than five hundred yards away in Mayfair and he wanted to begin on foot.

They left at three o’clock. Charlie paused outside, handing Willoughby the document case while he struggled into a Burberry, turning the collar up under the dark brown trilby hat.

‘You look rather odd,’ said Willoughby.

‘Glad to hear it,’ said Charlie. ‘Let’s hope others think so too.’

‘I’d hate to think we’re wasting our time,’ said the underwriter.

‘We’re not,’ Charlie assured him. ‘Believe me, we’re not.’

I hope, he thought.

He led the way through the traffic stop-starting along Piccadilly and up Stratton Street.

An assistant manager was waiting for the appointment that Charlie had made by telephone, one of several calls he had made after speaking to Edith. The formalities were very brief, but Charlie lingered all alone in the safe deposit vault, keeping strictly to the timing that had been rehearsed with the others in Willoughby’s office. Edith would have already decided her route and timetable, thought Charlie, sighing. Maybe even packed. She always liked doing things well in advance.

He and Willoughby left the bank at three-fifty, turning up Curzon Street towards Park Lane.

‘We’re running to the minute,’ said Charlie.

‘Are you sure we’re being followed?’ asked Willoughby.

‘Stake my life on it,’ said Charlie, smiling at the unintended irony. ‘In fact, I am,’ he added.

‘I feel rather ridiculous,’ said Willoughby.

‘You’re supposed to feel scared,’ said Charlie.

Four o’clock was striking as they emerged in front of the park. For several seconds they remained on the pavement, looking either way, as if seeking a taxi.

‘Here we go,’ said Charlie, seeing a break in the traffic stream and hurrying across towards the underground car park. The limousine came up the ramp as they reached the exit and the chauffeur hardly braked as Charlie and Willoughby entered. It slotted easily into the stream of vehicles, heading north towards Marble Arch.

‘Now I feel scared,’ confessed Willoughby.

‘There’s nothing illegal,’ Charlie said.

The halt outside the Marble Arch underground station was purposely sudden, causing a protest of brakes from the line of cars behind, but before the first horn blast Charlie and Willoughby were descending the stairs. They caught the train immediately, an unexpected advantage. As he sat down, Charlie looked at his watch. They were two minutes ahead of schedule, he saw.

‘Only another ten minutes and we’ll see the beginning of the rush hour,’ he said.

Willoughby nodded, without replying. He was staring straight ahead, tight-lipped. The man was scared, Charlie realised.

They jerked away from the train at Oxford Circus almost as the doors were closing, going up the escalator on the left and walking swiftly. The car pulled smoothly into the kerb as they emerged, turned quickly left through the one-way system into Soho and then regained Regent Street.

‘I wish we could go faster,’ muttered Willoughby.

‘Speed isn’t important,’ said Charlie.

There was no need for the braking manoeuvre at Piccadilly station because there was a traffic jam. Charlie led again, bustling down the stairs. This time they sat without speaking until they reached Green Park. As they came up beneath the shadow of the hotel in which they’d eaten, one of Willoughby’s clerks, wearing a Burberry, trilby and carrying a document case fell into step with them and the three of them entered the vehicle.

‘There’s still a car with us,’ volunteered the driver, taking a traffic light at amber and accelerating into the underpass on the way to Knightsbridge.

They got out at Knightsbridge station and as they descended the stairway a second clerk, dressed identically to the first and also carrying a matching case, joined the group. They travelled only as far as South Kensington, but when they emerged for the car this time, one of the raincoated men turned away, walking quickly into Gloucester Road. There was another clerk at Victoria and this time they went on for two stations, getting off at the height of the rush hour at Embankment. The throng of people covered the delay of the car reaching them. They travelled north again, to Leicester Square, and when they got out this time, the man who had left them in Kensington was waiting, joining without any greeting until Holborn. They crowded into the car, sped down Southampton Row and then boarded a District Line train at Temple. The car turned, going back along the Strand, circling Trafalgar Square, then pulled in for petrol in St Martin’s Lane.

On the underground, the group changed at Monument station, caught a Northern line train and disembarked unhurriedly at Bank. According to the prearranged plan, they waited outside the underwriter’s office for the car. It took five minutes to arrive.

‘Let’s go inside, shall we?’ said Willoughby, to the three clerks.

‘So where’s the Fabergé collection?’ quietly complained one of the three men. ‘Lot of stupid bloody rubbish.’

He’d missed the 6.30 to Sevenoaks and now his wife would be late for her pottery classes.

‘You got a new raincoat out of it,’ reminded the man next to him.

‘Bought one last week,’ said the clerk. ‘Sod it.’

To the others in the room, it seemed like blind, irrational rage, but Wilberforce’s emotion was really fear, matched almost equally with self-pity. Now the Director sat hunched forward at his desk, even the pipes temporarily forgotten.

‘How could it have happened?’ he demanded, wearily. ‘How the hell could it have possibly happened?’

A sob jerked his voice and he coughed quickly, to disguise it from the others in the room.

‘We never considered he would be able to get that much help,’ said Snare. ‘We just couldn’t adjust quickly enough.’

‘It was a brilliant manoeuvre,’ added Cuthbertson.

‘We should do something to Willoughby,’ said Snare vehemently.

‘What?’ demanded Wilberforce. ‘There’s no law against playing silly buggers on an underground train. And we’ve already ensured his firm is going to lose money.’

‘Frighten him, at least,’ maintained Snare.

‘Aren’t there more important things to worry about?’ asked Cuthbertson.

‘Christ,’ moaned Wilberforce, in another surge of self-pity. ‘Oh, Christ.’

A secretary tried to announce the arrival of the Americans, but Smith and Ruttgers followed her almost immediately into the room. Braley’s entry was more apologetic.

‘Lost him!’ challenged the American Director. It was a prepared accusation, the outrage too false.

‘And what happened to your men?’ retorted Wilberforce instantly.

Smith hesitated, disconcerted that his separate operation had been discovered.

‘Just a precaution,’ he tried to recover.

‘Which didn’t work. So it was a stupid waste of time and effort,’ said Wilberforce, refusing to be intimidated. ‘We’ve both made a mess of it and squabbling among ourselves isn’t going to help. Recovery is all that matters now.’

‘How, for God’s sake?’ asked Smith. ‘By now Charlie Muffin could be a million miles away.’

‘I had men at every port and airport within an hour,’ said Wilberforce, anxious to disclose some degree of expertise. ‘He’s still here, somewhere.’

‘But just where, exactly?’ asked Cuthbertson. The other man hadn’t offered any sympathy after the Vienna débâcle, remembered the ex-soldier. At one enquiry he’d even sat openly smiling.

Wilberforce shook his head, impatient with the older man’s enjoyment of what was happening.

‘He’s shown us how,’ said Wilberforce, quietly. They could still recover, he determined. Recover and win.

‘You surely don’t mean …’ Snare began to protest, but the Director spoke over him.

‘He went into the bank with a document case,’ said Wilberforce. ‘And we know he opened a safe deposit because we’ve already checked.’

‘No,’ tried Snare again, anticipating his superior’s thoughts.

‘We haven’t got anything else,’ said the British Director.

‘We’ve carried out two robberies!’ protested Snare, looking to the others in the room for support. ‘We can’t risk another one. It’s ludicrous. We’re practically turning ourselves into a crime factory.’

‘What risk?’ argued Wilberforce. ‘You’ve gone in knowing the details of every alarm system and with every architect’s drawing. There’s never been any danger.’

‘We’re breaking the law … over and over again.’

‘For a justifiable reason,’ said Wilberforce, disconcerted by the strength of the other man’s argument.

‘I think it’s unnecessarily dangerous,’ said Snare, aware he had no support in the room. ‘What Charlie did was nothing more than an exercise to lose us … a trick to get us interested, like staying overnight in the Savoy – nothing more than that.’

‘But we’ve got to know,’ insisted Wilberforce.

‘Why can’t somebody else do it?’ asked Snare, truculently, looking at the Americans. He’d taken all the chances, he realised. It was somebody else’s turn.

‘How can it be someone else?’ replied Smith, impatiently. ‘You’re the only one who can operate with Packer.’

‘Too dangerous,’ repeated Snare, defeated.

‘It’s not the only lead,’ Ruttgers said quietly.

Everyone turned to him, waiting.

‘You’ve forgotten the wife,’ continued the former Director. ‘Eventually he’ll establish contact with her … she’s the key.’

Both Directors nodded. Cuthbertson shuffled through some papers, finally holding up that morning’s report from the Savoy Hotel.

‘There was a thirty-five minute telephone call to Zürich,’ he said.

‘To a number on the main exchange … a number upon which we could not have installed any device,’ enlarged Ruttgers.

Wilberforce’s smile broadened and he reached out for an unfortunate pipe.

‘It’s getting better,’ he said.

‘I’ll go,’ said Ruttgers, quickly. ‘I went before … know the apartment and the woman.’

He looked up, alert for any opposition.

‘All right,’ agreed Wilberforce immediately. He couldn’t remain in complete control any longer, he decided. Didn’t want to, either. Finding Charlie Muffin again was the only consideration now. That and spreading some of the blame if anything went wrong.

‘Yes,’ accepted Smith, doubtfully. It was going to be a difficult tightrope, he thought. So it was right that someone of Ruttger’s seniority should be in charge.

The American Director looked back to Snare.

‘It’s still vital to find out what’s in that bank,’ he said. ‘Even though the idea of a third entry offends me as much as it does you.’

‘I’ve already got men obtaining detailed drawings of the houses on either side from the architects involved and all the protection systems from the insurance companies,’ said Wilberforce.

So it had been a pointless objection anyway, Snare realised. They were bastards, all of them.

‘Could we be ready tomorrow night?’ asked Smith.

‘It would mean hurrying,’ said Wilberforce.

The American looked at him, letting the criticism register.

‘Isn’t that exactly what it does mean?’ he said.

When it became completely dark in the office garage, Charlie eased himself up gratefully from the floor, stretching out more comfortably on the back seat of the car. He catnapped for three hours, aware he would need the rest later, then finally got out, easing the cramp from his shoulders and legs. His chest hurt from being wedged so long over the transmission tunnel, he realised. And his new raincoat had become very creased. It seemed more comfortable that way.

Using the key that Willoughby had given him that morning, he let himself cautiously out of the garage side door, standing for a long time in the deep shadows, seeking any movement. The city slept its midnight sleep.

He walked quickly through the side-streets, always keeping near the buildings, where the concealment was better. He’d used the cover like this in the Friedrichstrasse and Leipzigerstrasse all those years ago, he remembered, when they’d tried to kill him before. They’d failed that time, too.

The mini, with its smoked windows, was parked where Willoughby had guaranteed the chauffeur would leave it.

The heater was operating by the time Charlie drove up the Strand. Gradually he ceased shivering. It was 12.15 when Charlie positioned the car in the alley which made the private bank so attractive to his purpose, aware before he checked that it would be completely invisible to anyone in the main thoroughfare.

Quietly he re-entered the vehicle, glad of its warmth. It probably wouldn’t be tonight, he accepted. But the watch was necessary. Would they be stupid? he wondered.

‘If they are, then it’ll be your game, Charlie,’ he said, quietly. ‘So be careful you don’t fuck it up, like you have everything else so far.’