Charlie Muffin U.S.A.

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘There’s nothing here,’ said the man in the Chrysler, lowering his voice half way through the sentence. ‘It must have been in the first car.’

  ‘We’ll have to blow the gates.’

  The uncertainty of Terrilli’s people disappeared at the sight of more than a dozen men, all armed, approaching near enough to be seen in the searchlight’s glare. Terrilli’s guards only had handguns, which were ineffective for the range, but their firing split up the Cuban group, driving them into the bordering ditches. Two began answering with their Armalites, hitting two of Terrilli’s guards with their first few shots and forcing the others through the small side gate to the protection of the wall beyond. The return fire from the mansion was sporadic because rifles hadn’t yet been hurried to the gates, and there was little hindrance to the men groping along the ditch towards the plastic explosives detonator.

  Terrilli’s mansion was about two hundred yards from the gatehouse. The golf cart, which was the normal estate transport vehicle, was bringing rifles from the outbuildings and had pulled in beside the gates when the plastic exploded.

  A supporting pillar weighing nearly ten tons snapped completely at its base, lifted eight feet into the air and then pulled sideways by the huge, splintering gates. It fell directly on to the golf cart and its driver, who had died seconds before in the first shock of the detonation. The gatehouse, in which five men had crouched, abutted the pillar. The shock killed three, and crushing masonry a fourth. The fifth man was to be found three days later, deafened and blinded, his vertabrae, both legs and an arm crushed. Incredibly, he was to live for a further five years, in a home for the incurably ill, with no memory of what had happened to him.

  Terrilli had received the first warning from the gatehouse after the ambush of Santano’s car, although the vehicle had not been identified as that of his lieutenant. He had ordered the gates to be closed, and still had the telephone in his hand when Chambine’s station waggon was identified and reported to have scraped through.

  The speed of Terrilli’s reaction was that of an exceptional man. He depressed the receiver to clear the line and then dialled his lawyer in Fort Worth. The man knew better than to interrupt, accepted immediately that there was a major problem and promised to be at the house within the hour; until which time Terrilli was to refuse any interview with anyone in authority and should certainly not consider making a statement upon any subject whatsoever.

  Terrilli had intended receiving Chambine alone in the study, where he had taken his calls, but decided that the changed circumstances now made that impossible.

  Unaware of the surveillance, electronic monitoring and photography to which he had been subjected in the previous days, Terrilli imagined his only provable connection with the crime was what Chambine was bringing up the driveway to his mansion. Which made it a pity that Chambine had succeeded in getting through the gates. A pity; but then again, not a disaster. Terrilli had little doubt that the interception had been carried out by the police following some mistake on Chambine’s part.

  There might be suspicions, he thought, but none that could not be resolved with sufficient persuasion. He’d invested a great deal of time and effort and money against just such an eventuality as this. Whatever the suspicions, he was fairly confident that there would be no serious questioning of his insistence that he knew nothing of Chambine and could only assume that the presence of the man and his companions was the result of a panicked attempt by criminals to find sanctuary down a darkened roadway when they realised they were being pursued.

  Possible testimony from Chambine and whoever else was with him would upset that, of course. So Terrilli determined that he would have to behave like the public-spirited citizen he had so often proved himself to be. What would be more understandable than responding forcibly to the amazing and frightening situation of being confronted in your own home by a group of armed men? He would be able to show the proper regret that they should all have perished in their attempts to seize his house or himself, or whatever else their purpose might have been.

  His real regret would be in having to return the Romanov Collection, but he knew that there was no alternative. He might be able to hold it for a few moments, at least.

  Terrilli realised that he missed Santano. He could have outlined the idea within a few moments and the man would have put it into effect, making sure that there were no problems. Without him, Terrilli himself had to brief those at the gate. He stood at one of the inter-estate control panels, wall-mounted beside the huge entrance, jiggling the receiver to summon those who would have by now sealed the gate against entry. He was looking through one of the side windows as he did so and saw perfectly in the estate floodlights Chambine’s car coming too fast up the driveway; it was impossible for the man to negotiate the bend at the top of the drive without running over the neatly clipped lawn edge.

  Because he was looking in that direction, he saw the explosion that tore away the gate. There was a sudden flare of white, then orange, and he heard the muffled crump, the windows and very fabric of the house seeming to shudder under the impact of the blast. A scratching, tearing sound came from the instrument in his hand and he knew that it was useless. He replaced it neatly on the hook.

  There were more of his people about the house and in the outbuildings. But he could not assemble them in time to confront the occupants of the car, which at that moment mounted the lawn in front of the house, as Terrilli had feared, ripped a track through it as the brakes were applied, and slid into the steps before stopping.

  Terrilli opened the door, struggling with a feeling he was yet to know as fear, but more occupied with planning how to kill the thieves himself. He realised it would be almost impossible.

  Chambine was out of the vehicle first, running around the bonnet in an awkward, crab-like way as he tried to see what was following as well as what he was heading for. He hesitated, confused by the sight of Terrilli, glancing back curiously at the others who were thrusting themselves out of the car.

  ‘Get in,’ said Terrilli.

  ‘The stamps …’

  ‘Leave them.’

  Chambine entered first, then Bulz, followed by Bertrano and Petrilli, who came in side by side. Immediately beyond the door they halted, looking uncertainly about them. Within seconds there was a perceptible change in the attitude of Bulz, Bertrano and Petrilli, as they recognised the man in whose house they were.

  ‘What happened?’ demanded Terrilli.

  ‘Ambushed in the approach road,’ said Chambine.

  ‘So the other three are dead or captured?’

  Chambine seemed baffled by the question. Then he said, ‘They were behind us. They got hit, certainly. But there was another car in front.’

  ‘Another car?’

  ‘An ambush,’ Chambine repeated, ‘we went into an ambush.’

  ‘So someone knew … someone already knew …’

  Chambine shrugged. ‘How the hell do I know?’

  Terrilli paused, then decided to ignore the sudden lapse of courtesy. With this came another decision. He couldn’t kill them, not now he didn’t know what was happening. And then there was a further thought. He’d disclosed himself to others beside Chambine. That feeling came again, the unaccustomed fear.

  ‘What about that explosion?’ he asked.

  Again Chambine shrugged. ‘The gates, I suppose. Why don’t you ask your own people?’

  ‘None of them have come back yet.’

  ‘Men,’ reported Bertrano, from one of the windows alongside the door, ‘there are men moving across the driveway out there …’

  As he spoke there was a single shot, then another.

  ‘They’re trying to take the lights out,’ added Bertrano.

  ‘The police wouldn’t behave like this,’ said Terrilli, in sudden hope.

  ‘Who then?’ said Chambine.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Terrilli. If the interception in the private roadway hadn’t been official, he was in better shape than he h
ad thought. The explosion would obviously bring the police, but if he could contain whatever was going on before their arrival, there would be a way out; might even be able to get it officially regarded as a well-planned attempt at armed robbery of one of the community’s better known residents.

  ‘That room, to the right,’ he said, speaking generally. ‘The gunroom. There are weapons. Stop whatever’s happening out there and there’s an extra fifty thousand apiece.’

  Bertrano and Bulz began running towards the room he had indicated.

  ‘The collection,’ remembered Chambine, ‘we left it out there in the car.’

  ‘Get it,’ ordered Terrilli.

  They had taken the legs off the display cases before loading them into the station waggon. There were twelve, each containing four albums, and some separate exhibits, and although not heavy they were awkward to handle. It was impossible for either Chambine or Petrilli to carry more than one at a time. Three were inside before the first shot sounded, caroming off the ancient brickwork around the door and spitting chips into Terrilli’s face. He jerked back, hand to his cheek, momentarily dazed. Then he went to a control box near the communications panel, opened it and threw one of the switches. The porchway area was plunged into sudden darkness.

  Bulz and Bertrano arrived at the door at the same time as Terrilli. Bulz had a pump-action Winchester. A figure rose, about a hundred yards away, and Bulz fired repeatedly, very practised with a rifle, and in the middle of the burst the man crumpled, fell and lay still.

  Terrilli crouched low in the doorway, waving Petrilli and Chambine back and forth, muttering ‘careful’ and ‘easy’ every time either man handled a case badly.

  Terrilli was waiting by the door, to close it, as Petrilli fell forward with the last case. He was at the top step when he got hit, high in the back so that he pitched forward, as if he were offering the case to those crouched around the door. The case fell and smashed, and Terrilli leaped out, snatching it up. Petrilli collided with him, knocking the older man sideways so that Terrilli ended hunched against the door edge with the broken case clutched to his chest. The shot had shattered Petrilli’s lungs. He was already bleeding from the mouth and some blood had splashed on to Terrilli, who shuddered, disgusted, and scrambled back through the door. Bertrano slammed it as another Armalite bullet struck home, making a hole about six inches in diameter

  ‘Heavy weapons,’ said Chambine.

  ‘And they know how to use them,’ added Bertrano.

  He wheeled at a sound from behind, but Terrilli held up his hand.

  ‘My people,’ he said.

  There were six, who had come from the outbuildings through the rear doors. Terrilli looked back to those at the doorway. Nine in all. That should be sufficient.

  Another bullet smashed through a window, plucking the curtaining like a sudden wind.

  ‘They’re not police,’ Terrilli said positively. ‘Get out in the grounds. I want them taken away, every one …’

  The men began turning.

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Terrilli.

  They stopped.

  ‘These men will go with you,’ he said, indicating Cham-bine, Bulz and Bertrano. ‘And I want just one of those people out there brought back, just for a moment. I want to know who the hell they are.’

  Terrilli was half way back to the study when the idea came to him. He stopped, openly laughing at it, then hurried on to the nearest telephone. He had himself connected immediately to the police emergency number.

  ‘Giuseppe Terrilli,’ he said, ‘I’m being attacked. In my own home. For God’s sake, hurry.’

  ‘We’re already on our way,’ the policeman assured him.

  General Valery Kalenin had gone to particular trouble with the meal, wanting Berenkov later to realise that he had prepared the evening for the announcement. And not just the food; there had been two bottles of Aloxe-Corton and there was another in readiness on a sideboard. Kalenin knew it was his friend’s favourite.

  ‘You’re an excellent host,’ said his guest, belching appreciatively.

  ‘I’ve some news,’ said Kalenin.

  Berenkov smiled at him over the table.

  ‘Charlie Muffin is alive,’ said the K.G.B. chief.

  For a moment, Berenkov’s expression faltered and then the smile widened.

  ‘I never believed he’d died in that air crash,’ said Berenkov. ‘It was too neat and tidy.’

  He looked expectantly at Kalenin.

  ‘In America,’ continued Kalenin. ‘Appears to be working for some insurance firm.’

  Berenkov nodded. ‘Sir Archibald Willoughby’s son was an underwriter. Thought of attempting to compromise him once. But his father had him too well protected.’

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed Kalenin, ‘it’s his firm.’

  Berenkov sat back reflectively. ‘Charlie Muffin,’ he said distantly. ‘I liked that man. He caught me and I got a forty-year jail sentence. But I still liked him.’

  ‘It was because of him you got released,’ Kalenin reminded him.

  Berenkov shook his head. ‘He didn’t do that for me. Charlie did that for himself. Revenge.’

  ‘He appears to be getting in the way of an F.B.I. operation,’ said Kalenin. ‘They want to kill him.’

  ‘Does he know?’

  ‘I’m trying to stop it happening.’

  Berenkov picked up his glass, gazing at the wine.

  ‘It’s a coincidence,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘This Aloxe-Corton. It’s a wine I recommended to him after he put me into prison. He used to drink rubbish before that …’

  He sipped his drink.

  ‘It became his favourite too,’ the former spymaster added.

  27

  Williamson had known it would happen, but because it was an unacceptable decision, he had refused to consider it. Then he came within fifty yards of the approach road to Terrilli’s home, where he could ignore it no longer, and finally recognised that he would not carry out his instructions fully because to do so might mean capture and repatriation to Russia.

  He slowed and then halted completely, aware of the proximity of the turning and correctly assuming that Charlie would approach the house on foot. Williamson surmised that the man must have paid while the taxi was still travelling because the moment it stopped, Charlie left the car and went straight down the darkened private roadway.

  Ramirez had also stopped his car, sufficiently far away for Charlie to be unaware of it. Williamson nodded with satisfaction as the five Cubans entrusted with Charlie’s safety left their vehicles and went after him. Williamson knew the thoroughness of their training and was confident that Charlie would not detect them. What about his own training? It was far better and far more extensive than that of the five who had that moment set off unquestioningly to do what they had been ordered. He should have been at the turning now, using the shadows as expertly as they, because his was the ultimate responsibility for keeping the man alive.

  Instead, he reached out and started his car, realising that to remain in the vicinity risked the very involvement he wanted to avoid. He continued south down Ocean Boulevard, around the curve and then along the section that runs parallel with the sea. After about twenty yards, the houses to the left stopped and he was looking beyond the palms to the open sea. It was a completely clear night, the moon silvering the gently lifting water. There were a few cars at the metred spaces, but Williamson easily found a place in which to put his vehicle. He stopped again, suddenly aware that he was perspiring and knowing, because psychology had formed part of his training, that it was because of his uncertainty rather than the heat of the night.

  At the moment when he turned off the ignition, there was the thump of an explosion and he twisted around in time to see the sudden glare from the direction of Terrilli’s estate.

  Pendlebury’s tiny convoy had driven cautiously down the private road, stopping at the scene of the two crashed cars. Pendlebury’s driver still hadn’t tur
ned off the engine when the explosion came. The Cuban commandos, who were expecting it, were flattened and quite hidden, sixty yards away, but the small F.B.I. group was completely exposed. The Dodge Colt was still leading and caught the full impact of the blast. All the glass in the car shattered inwards, blinding the driver and severing the carotid artery of the man sitting beside him. No one realised at the time and so he bled to death before help could be obtained. What was later to be judged the most serious effect of the blast was the damage to the radio car. The roof-mounted antenna was shifted from its mountings, giving from that moment only an intermittent signal, and the transistorised valves in the two back-up sets were both broken. The windscreen was shattered in Pendlebury’s Plymouth Fury, but the only injury he suffered was a cut thumb, of which he was not even aware.

  The F.B.I. men were all stunned and sat unmoving for several moments. In Pendlebury’s car, Gilbert was vaguely aware of movement some way off, in the area still dusty from the explosion, but his eyes would not focus. He was too confused to associate it at that time with any danger.

  ‘What in the name of Christ …’ said Pendlebury. His voice croaked and he became aware from the cotton-wool numbness in his ears that he could not hear his own voice.

  ‘Did you authorise any explosives?’ demanded Gilbert, recovering first. When Pendlebury did not reply, Gilbert shouted the question again.

  ‘Just grenades. And Mace, of course,’ said Pendlebury. His ears were clearing.

  ‘That wasn’t a grenade,’ said Gilbert. ‘What the hell’s happening …’

  ‘I wish I knew.’

  Pendlebury left the car with difficulty, his body aching as if he had undergone some strenuous exercise. The radio control man was sitting with the door open and his head in his hands, and when he looked up at Pendlebury’s approach, Pendlebury saw that he was bleeding from the nose and eyes.