Charlie Muffin U.S.A.

by Brian Freemantle

  Betty wouldn’t be sorry, he knew. She’d worry about where the money would come from, of course; she was very conscious of money. But she had never liked the job. She had been frightened he might get hurt, never quite believing that he’d only ever fired his gun on the practice ranges, when the regulations demanded it, and that on the three occasions in his operational life when someone had fired at him, he’d kept as flat as hell, letting everyone else do their John Wayne impressions. It was nice to have a wife who thought he was brave, though.

  The security guard held him at the front desk, as if he did not believe the green identity card he produced, calling up to Bowler’s office to confirm that Pendlebury was expected and even then seeming reluctant to accept that he was an employee of the Bureau.

  ‘Where’s the washroom?’ asked Pendlebury.

  The man nodded further into the building. ‘First past the elevators.’

  Pendlebury went towards it, still feeling the uncomfortable wetness near his crotch. If it hadn’t been for that damned Bloody Mary, he’d have looked presentable. He’d had the suit cleaned and sat all the way from Houston with his jacket off so that it wouldn’t get creased. They had actually been circling Dulles airport when the stupid bastard in front had put his seat back and Pendlebury had got the drink in his lap. Hadn’t even had time to taste it, which was another cause for regret. With more room than he had had in the aircraft toilet, Pendlebury tried to sponge away the stain, but the dampened paper towel began to disintegrate, shedding itself over his trousers. Sighing, he picked the bits off as quickly as he could, aware that the deputy would be wondering where he was.

  There was a further check on the top floor, and Bowler was standing impatiently just inside his office when Pendlebury entered.

  ‘The Director’s waiting!’ he said. He made it sound as if they were late helping Moses down with the tablets.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Pendlebury. Warburger wouldn’t personally fire him. What the hell was it then?

  ‘I’ve gone into bat for you on this one,’ said Bowler as they hurried along the corridor.

  ‘What?’ demanded Pendlebury. Bowler didn’t know him any more than Warburger did. Whatever support Bowler had provided, it had been for his own advancement. He thought the man’s use of the baseball metaphor was juvenile, too. He wondered if it had anything to do with his peculiar name.

  ‘Director wants to tell you himself,’ said the other man. ‘For God’s sake, don’t foul it up. What happened to your suit?’

  ‘Something spilled on the plane.’

  ‘Thought you might have had time to buy another one,’ said Bowler and Pendlebury stared at him in amazement, aware that the man was completely serious.

  ‘Don’t have any weddings or funerals coming up,’ he said.

  Bowler entered the Director’s office ahead of him, shaking his head as if in some personal sorrow.

  Warburger was standing, just as his deputy had been. There was only the slightest pause, as if the gesture might be forced, and then he came forward, offering his hand. Pendlebury took it, with cautious curiosity.

  ‘Good to see you again, Jack,’ greeted the Director, who had never met him before.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Pendlebury. He was conscious of the other man’s examination and the slight twinge of distaste at the wetness around his groin. He wondered if the man suspected him of peeing himself.

  Warburger held back from asking, instead leading Pendlebury to a seat near his desk. Bowler was already waiting near a chair which Pendlebury assumed was his by custom.

  ‘Got a big one for you,’ announced Warburger, back in his own executive chair, but leaning forward from it, urgently. ‘The biggest.’

  Pendlebury decided that Warburger would always talk with intense enthusiasm, in the hope that those whom he was addressing would become infected by the feeling and work the better for it.

  Warburger seemed to expect some response, but Pendlebury couldn’t think of anything to say. Finally the Director continued, ‘What did you think of those Chicago auctions?’

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Pendlebury honestly. He had never been able to understand how the second one had worked so well, after so many criminals, many with provable Mafia connections, had been scooped up in the first phoney warehouse sale of stolen goods that the F.B.I. had staged. Greed, he supposed. Often Pendlebury thought that psychiatrists and psychologists were wrong and that greed superseded sex or hunger as man’s primary motivation.

  Warburger smiled, pleased with the assessment. ‘We’re going to put on another one,’ he said. ‘Just for one man. We’re going to get Giuseppe Terrilli.’

  ‘You’ve got to be joking!’ said Pendlebury, aware the moment he spoke that he’d lost the goodwill earned by his previous praise of the auction idea.

  ‘There’s nothing funny about this,’ declared Warburger earnestly. ‘I’ve created a situation that I know will get him and you’re going to be the one to make it work. And let me tell you something else … something I never want you for a moment to forget. There’s more in this than just catching Terrilli.’

  ‘What?’ demanded Pendlebury, cutting the Director off at what appeared to be the beginning of a speech.

  Warburger paused, frowning at the intrusion.

  ‘Politics,’ he said. ‘If this goes as I intend, this Bureau is going to have Capitol Hill protection for years.’

  Pendlebury sat regarding the Director warily. The crotch of his trousers was drying, the cloth becoming like stiff cardboard.

  ‘How’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘We needed a front … something that Terrilli would never suspect. The exhibition that is to trap Terrilli is being staged in aid of a children’s charity. And the organiser is Senator Kelvin Cosgrove.’

  ‘He’s an asshole,’ said Pendlebury, aware of the Director’s immediate wince and regretting the outburst.

  ‘He’s a powerful politician who stands a very good chance of becoming Attorney-General. And this operation is going to get him the appointment,’ said Warburger.

  ‘He’s media happy,’ warned Pendlebury. ‘He’d blow it.’

  ‘No,’ argued Warburger. ‘Not this time. He knows the advantages will come when it’s all over. He’ll do nothing to foul it up. It’s as important to him as it is to us.’

  ‘He’ll not want any part in the actual operation?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ said Bowler. ‘He’ll be kept fully briefed on what’s happening, of course. But he wants no public acknowledgment for what happens until after Terrilli’s arrest.’

  ‘Which he will get, unstintingly,’ added Warburger.

  ‘And for which the Bureau will receive his heartfelt gratitude and support throughout the duration of his office, if he gets it,’ predicted Pendlebury.

  ‘Exactly,’ confirmed the Director. ‘How’s that for neatness?’

  ‘Why me?’ asked Pendlebury, more interested in his own safety than in flattering the Director. There would be at least a hundred other operatives at supervisor level whom he knew, quite realistically, Warburger and Bowler would prefer. He wondered if they’d tell him the truth or try to bullshit him.

  ‘Because you’re the one the computer came up with,’ said Bowler. ‘We cross-checked everyone at your level against any involvement whatsoever which might have made them known to Terrilli or his people. He’s got an organisation almost as efficient as ours and he’s survived so long by using it properly. There’s nothing you have done for them to have a file on you …’

  Bowler trailed away and Warburger came in, as if they had rehearsed ‘… and we’ve been impressed by your file. Very few failures.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Pendlebury.

  ‘And we don’t want any failures on this,’ warned War-burger. ‘Get this right and we’ll all be on guaranteed pensions.’

  ‘Or our widows will be,’ said Pendlebury pointedly.

  ‘Precisely,’ said Warburger, careless of Pendlebury’s reminder of who would be exposed to
the danger. ‘Like I said, no mistakes.’

  ‘Terrilli’s a don, right?’ said Pendlebury. He hoped the honesty would continue.

  ‘A favourite to become capo di tutti capi,’ confirmed Warburger. ‘And he’s qualified to be the boss of bosses. He’s certainly the best example of how organised crime has covered itself with squeaky-clean enterprises. Those front businesses of his gross a legitimate $70,000,000 a year.’

  ‘Why be crooked?’ said Pendlebury, attempting some exactly what he is lightness.

  Warburger misunderstood, snorting at the fat man’s naïvety.

  ‘Every week of every year, approximately ten boats leave ports in South America, mostly in Colombia, and each is carrying an average of $6,000,000 worth of dope. They get off the Grand Bahamian Banks or around Cuba and then peel off, one by one, doing a chicken run for the coast of Florida. Those that get past the coastguards are a bonus. They’ve all got radio equipment aboard that could monitor a shot to Mars. As soon as one gets arrested, those still waiting offshore know. And so when the coastguard boat goes in as an escort those unarrested follow at a safe distance. While that one illicit cargo is being counted in Miami, the rest is being landed somewhere along the coast.’

  ‘That’s about $312 billion a year!’ said Pendlebury incredulously.

  ‘And that’s before it’s adulterated for street use,’ added Warburger. ‘Terrilli’s aircraft check the position of the coastguard vessels and he’s got radio equipment around the coastline, all with some legitimate function, listening to all coastguard and customs radio traffic’

  ‘Jesus!’ said Pendlebury.

  ‘And He’ll be the only one I can’t guarantee will be helping you,’ said Warburger, making his own heavy attempt at a joke.

  ‘Do what?’ prompted Pendlebury. ‘What sort of exhibition is it?’

  The Director paused, staring down at the thick file before him. He had a satisfied smile upon his face when he looked up.

  ‘There’s always a weakness,’ he said, refusing to be hurried. ‘With some it’s sex. Others booze. Or drugs. There’s always something …’ the smile widened ‘… Terrilli is so successful because he hasn’t got any weaknesses. Not something that can be turned and used against him. But he’s got a hobby. It took us a long time to discover it and even longer to establish how fanatical he is about it. But that’s exactly what he is: fanatical.’

  ‘About what?’ The Director’s theatricality was annoying Pendlebury.

  ‘Stamps,’ said Warburger, simply. ‘In Palm Beach he’s got a home that’s built and looks like a fortress. And somewhere inside he’s got a fantastic stamp collection.’

  Pendlebury frowned. ‘I don’t appreciate how that gives us any edge.’

  ‘Neither did we, not at first. Not until we realised his addiction to it. We let some stamps be stolen and we put a trace on them through dealer to dealer. And guess who was the eager buyer?’

  ‘Terrilli.’

  Warburger nodded. ‘He’s not interested in showing off, which is another reason why he’s so high in the organisation. The Mafia have always respected modesty. The stamps are entirely for his own enjoyment, something he can sit over and know no one else in the world possesses. And because no one else will ever see them, he can have as many stolen items as he likes, just so long as they go on building up his collection.’

  ‘Why don’t we tell the police, so they can get a warrant and bust him for what he’s got so far?’

  ‘We don’t know how much of the local justice department he’s got working for him,’ said Bowler. ‘And that’s almost immaterial anyway. There’d be a leak long before it got to the warrant stage. By the time anyone penetrated that funny castle, the collection would be as clean as my eleven-year-old son’s. This has got to be independent of the local police.’

  ‘What’s the bait?’

  ‘Nearly all the collection that Tsar Nicholas of Russia had created five years before his death,’ said Warburger. ‘It was broken up, years ago. But we’ve managed to get a lot of it back together and we’ve filled the gaps from a collection assembled by the man who organised the Tsar’s folios. Terrilli will never be able to resist it.’

  Pendlebury looked doubtful. ‘Wouldn’t someone as careful as Terrilli check how it suddenly came to be on show?’

  ‘We don’t think so,’ said Warburger. ‘It’s his religion, and people don’t usually question their gods. And Cosgrove and his charity would withstand any scrutiny.’

  ‘What do I do?’

  ‘Let it be stolen,’ said Warburger. ‘I don’t want any half-assed security hero discovering locks taped open and imagining another Watergate. You’re going in as a Pinkerton’s man, with over-all responsibility. It’s got to look good … in fact, it’s got to be good. Terrilli’s people won’t come in with panty hose over their heads and stolen cars at the kerb, even if they don’t suspect a set-up. They’ll check and they’ll check and they’ll check again and before they do anything, they’ll want to be one hundred and one per cent sure everything is kosher.’

  ‘I’ll have no back-up?’

  ‘Not actually attached to the exhibition. Cosgrove will be in attendance at all times, for the public recognition afterwards. But I promise he won’t interfere. So you’re by yourself. No matter how we tried to disguise it, they’d spot a squad, if we put one in. But you’ll have an army outside. The moment that collection or any part of it gets lifted, you blow the whistle and they’ll be with you, covering you every step of the way.’

  ‘And we hit Terrilli’s house the moment it’s inside?’

  Warburger nodded. ‘We got Capone for income tax evasion and we’ll get Terrilli for stealing stamps.’

  ‘What happens if you’re wrong?’ demanded Pendlebury suddenly.

  ‘Wrong?’

  ‘What happens if Terrilli doesn’t make a move? Or does, and for some reason we haven’t considered, gets away with it?’

  ‘If Terrilli does nothing,’ lectured Warburger patiently, ‘then a kids’ charity gets a few thousand dollars it wouldn’t otherwise have received. I don’t accept that there’s anything that we haven’t considered, but if the stamps go and we lose them, then they’re insured.’

  ‘There’s always the unexpected,’ said Pendlebury professionally. ‘No matter how much planning or rehearsal, there’s always something that threatens to screw it up.’

  As Pendlebury spoke, three and a half thousand miles away Charlie Muffin was walking into the City office of Rupert Willoughby.

  He is such an unprepossessing man, thought the underwriter.

  Charlie shook his head emphatically. ‘I’m not interested.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s not a job … not a proper one, anyway. Something for a caretaker.’

  ‘The security of £3,000,000 worth of stamps is hardly something for a caretaker,’ argued Willoughby.

  ‘There’ll be security,’ pointed out Charlie.

  ‘Of course,’ agreed the underwriter. ‘We insisted upon that before agreeing any sort of cover. But it’s still an unusual situation. I’d feel happier if you were there.’

  ‘And it’s Russian,’ Charlie reminded him.

  ‘Not any more. The collections have been in Western ownership for years. What interest would they still have?’

  Charlie shook his head again. ‘Never underestimate the Russian national pride. They’ll be interested.’

  ‘Surely you don’t expect them to put in observers?’

  ‘They might.’

  ‘But what harm would it do? You wrecked your own department and the American service, not the Russians.’

  Charlie smiled at the other man’s innocence of the world in which he had existed – sometimes only just – all his life. He found it easy to envy Rupert Willoughby.

  ‘I don’t want anyone to find me,’ said Charlie.

  ‘I think you’re exaggerating the risk,’ Willoughby accused him.

  ‘Perhaps,’ admitted Charlie. The dangers
weren’t as great as he was attempting to make them, despite what had happened in Hong Kong. He frowned in sudden awareness. He was raising objections because he felt it was expected, not because he sincerely believed in them.

  ‘I’m asking you as a personal favour to me,’ said the underwriter, choosing the strongest lever to use on Charlie. ‘And because I know of your association with my father … how much he admired you.’

  ‘It’ll be a waste of time,’ said Charlie, conscious of the weakness in his voice.

  ‘I thought your complaint was that you had too much of that to waste anyway.’

  It would be activity, conceded Charlie. And he was bored. Anything occurring within America came under the jurisdiction of the F.B.I., not the Central Intelligence Agency. So the danger would be far less than it had been in Hong Kong.

  ‘All I’m suggesting is a month in America, three weeks of that in the sunshine of Florida,’ said the underwriter.

  ‘What’s Florida got apart from Disneyworld, oranges and vacationing Jewish mothers worrying about their sons becoming doctors?’ demanded Charlie.

  ‘You never know,’ said Willoughby, relieved. Charlie was going to accept, Willoughby realised. He was glad he had warned the organisers that he would be sending a representative.

  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?