Here Comes Charlie M

TWENTY-TWO

Charlie drove quite relaxed, allowing another vehicle to come between him and the car he was pursuing, so that when it turned unexpectedly to go down Constitution Hill he was able to follow quite naturally, without any sudden braking which might have sounded to attract the attention of Snare.

Only after they had gone around the Victoria monument in front of Buckingham Palace did Charlie close up, not wanting to be left behind at the traffic lights in Parliament Square. The second set were red. Through the glass of the one separating car, Charlie could see Snare and the other man stiffly upright and apparently not talking.

‘Always an unfriendly sod,’ remembered Charlie.

They went across Westminster Bridge and entered the one-way system. The sudden turn beneath the railway arch, to go into Waterloo station, almost took Charlie by surprise. He only just managed to swerve without tyre squeal, continuing slowly up the long approach and trying to keep a taxi between them. He stopped before the corner, for more taxis to overtake and provide a barrier, so that when he drove into the better-lighted part of the concourse, Snare was already moving off.

Charlie didn’t hurry, wanting to see the car to which the second man went. Parked as it was, the vehicle was obviously not stolen but belonged to him. So he could get the man’s name from the registration.

He went slowly by, memorising the number as he passed, finally speeding up to get into position behind Snare again.

Snare was driving very precisely, Charlie saw, giving every signal and keeping within the speed limit. Rules and regulations, recalled Charlie; the dictum of Snare’s life. Without guidelines to keep within and precedents to follow, Snare had always been uncomfortable. Robbing banks, an open criminal activity, would have been difficult for him, even with the back-up and assistance provided by the department. On the occasions when he’d had to do it, he’d rather enjoyed it, thought Charlie. It was like playing roulette and knowing the ball would always fall on your number. But Snare would have hated it. The word stayed in Charlie’s mind; the emotion that would have provided the necessary incentive, he supposed.

‘He really can’t have liked me very much,’ Charlie smiled to himself. The expression left his face. There couldn’t have been anything very amusing about Snare’s Moscow imprisonment, admitted Charlie. Immediately he balanced the self-criticism. Just as there wasn’t anything amusing at being chosen for assassination at a border crossing; he had no reason to feel guilt over the man in front. Snare’s inability to adjust to the unexpected intruded into his mind. It made the outcome of tonight’s journey almost predictable, he thought; Snare was an advantage he hadn’t expected.

They went around Parliament Square but Snare kept to the south side of Buckingham Palace this time, heading into Pimlico. Traffic thinned as they entered the residential area and Charlie pulled back, losing his cover.

He stopped completely when he saw the tail-lights in front disappear to the left, into an enclosed square. He walked unhurriedly to the side road. The car was halfway along, neatly positioned in its residents’ parking area, the permit prominently displayed. Snare was the sort of man to keep a cinema ticket in his pocket, in case he was challenged coming back from a pee during the interval, thought Charlie.

He waited until he saw the ground-floor lights go on, then returned to the car. He drove into the side road, but continued past Snare’s home, going almost around the tiny park upon which the tall Regency buildings fronted. He stopped opposite Snare’s house, but with the park between them, knowing he was completely concealed.

‘How long?’ wondered Charlie aloud.

It was nearly an hour. Charlie was beginning to fear he had miscalculated Snare’s reaction when the light at which he was staring fixedly suddenly went out and then, seconds later, the door of the house opened. There was the delay while Snare fixed the safety belt and then the car moved off, circling behind to pass within feet of where Charlie waited. He gazed openly through the shaded glass, knowing he would be invisible to the other man. Snare drove bent slightly forward, away from the seat. His back would ache after long journeys, decided Charlie, allowing the man to turn out on to the main road before restarting the engine and pulling out to follow. Even in the darkened car, he had been able to see the scar disfiguring Snare’s face. Charlie wondered how it had happened.

They went directly south, crossing the river over Chelsea Bridge and then, gradually, began taking the roads that would give them a route eastwards.

‘So it is Wilberforce,’ said Charlie. ‘And he still lives at Tenterden.’

He had been to the man’s country home once, Charlie remembered. It had been within a month of Cuthbertson’s appointment and Wilberforce, ass-hole crawling as always, had thrown a party. His role had been that of the jester, recalled Charlie, paraded as a reminder of the stupid anachronisms that Cuthbertson and his team of bright young university-educated, army-trained recruits were going to revitalise. He’d got drunk and told Wilberforce’s wife an obscene story about a short-sighted showgirl and a donkey, expecting her to be shocked. Instead she had started to squeeze his hand and kept asking him to open bottles of a rather inferior Piesporter Goldtropfchen for her, in the kitchen. Should have given her a quick knee-trembler, over the draining board, decided Charlie, in belated regret. She’d worn corsets, though, with little dangly things to support her stockings. And Wilberforce had kept appearing, as if he’d realised the danger.

Even on an open road and as confused as Charlie expected him to be, Snare wasn’t exceeding fifty miles an hour. A fact to remember, decided Charlie. Timing the other man was going to be important tonight.

Because Snare was establishing the speed, it took them almost two hours to reach the Kent village. Impatient now and quite sure of the other man’s destination, Charlie didn’t bother to see him actually enter the drive of Wilberforce’s house.

Instead he made a wide loop at the crossroads, hurrying through the gears to pick up speed and rejoin the road to London.

Three hours to achieve what he wanted, Charlie estimated, smiling at the burbling of the widened exhaust. Sounded like Cuthbertson, he thought, just before one of those filthy coughs he was always making. Charlie laughed aloud, extending the thought. Christ, how Cuthbertson would have choked if he had been in a position to know what was going to happen.

Ruttgers sprawled full length on the coverlet of the hotel bedroom, telephone cupped loosely to his ear, enjoying the admission from the man who had replaced him.

‘Quite obvious,’ Onslow Smith repeated. ‘A meeting between them can be the only point.’

‘And we’re handling it this time,’ Ruttgers reminded him. ‘No more foul-ups by the British.’

He’d made a dirty mark on the counterpane, he saw; he should have taken his shoes off.

‘I’m thinking of discussing the whole thing with the Secretary of State,’ announced Smith.

‘He won’t like it.’

‘He’ll like it less if something happens and he’s not been warned.’

‘Why not wait? We could have the whole thing buttoned up in a day or two.’

‘Maybe,’ conceded Smith. Thank God he had his own people in Ruttger’s support team, to warn him the moment there was any sign of Charlie Muffin. Increasingly Smith was coming to think that Ruttgers saw the whole thing as a personal vendetta, like some Western shoot-out at high noon. He suspected the man didn’t give a damn about the Agency any more.

‘I want you to be careful, Garson,’ he warned. ‘Very careful indeed.’

‘I will be.’

It was too quick, judged Smith. Dismissive almost.

‘I mean it,’ insisted the Director. ‘There must be no chance of our being identified.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Ruttgers.

‘I do worry,’ said Smith. ‘This whole thing is coming unglued.’

‘I’ll keep in touch,’ promised Ruttgers, swinging his legs off the bed to search for a replacement cigarette. ‘Nothing will go wrong.’

‘That’s what Wilberforce was saying, a week ago.’

‘What was in the private bank, by the way?’ enquired Ruttgers, locating a fresh pack of cigarettes.

‘Snare only went in tonight,’ Smith replied. ‘I haven’t heard yet.’

Wilberforce’s dressing gown was very long and full-skirted and made swishing sounds as he strode about the study. Snare sat uneasily on the edge of the chair by the desk, eager for some guidance from his superior.

‘I thought you should see it, right away,’ he said, almost in apology.

‘Quite right,’ said Wilberforce absently. ‘Quite right.’

He paused before a small side table on which drinks were arranged, then appeared to change his mind, returning to the desk.

‘What does it mean?’ asked Snare.

Wilberforce picked up a piece of paper that Snare had taken from the Mayfair safe deposit box and stared down at it, shaking his head.

‘God knows,’ he said. Concern was marked in his voice.

He threw it aside, and Snare retrieved it, examining it with the same intensity as the other man. ‘… “Clap hands, here comes Charlie”’ he recited. He looked back to Wilberforce.

‘It’s like some sort of challenge, isn’t it?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ agreed Wilberforce miserably, ‘it’s a challenge.’

At that moment, fifty miles farther north, Charlie Muffin eased a plastic credit card through a basement window, prodded the catch up and two minutes later was standing in the darkened kitchen of Snare’s Pimlico home. Funny, decided Charlie, after all that Snare had been up to in the last few weeks and there wasn’t the slightest attempt at security in his own house. Still, he reflected, the attitude was typical. People always expected misfortune to occur to someone else, never themselves. Carefully he refastened the window and began walking towards the stairs leading upwards. He sniffed, appreciatively. Remains of the last meal still smelt good. Curry, he decided. He wouldn’t have imagined Snare had had time to cook. Probably out of a packet. Remarkable, the value available in supermarkets these days.