‘If it’s carelessness, then it must be stopped,’ insisted Terrilli. ‘We’ve made examples in the past. It’s time we made some more. If they’ve got to be taught the hard way, it’s really their fault.’
‘I’ll see to it,’ said Santano. ‘Sure you don’t want me to go down tomorrow?’
‘There’s a reason for you to stay,’ said Terrilli. ‘I want you here on Thursday night to organise something.’
‘What?’
‘I want the gates opened, the alarms turned off and the guards warned to expect a group of people, arriving in a hurry, sometime between twelve-fifteen and twelve-forty-five.’
‘What’s happening?’ demanded Santano. Because he had known the man for so long, Terrilli was aware of his changed attitude. Soon it would become resentment.
‘Something is being delivered,’ said Terrilli.
‘By outside people?’
‘It will be safer,’ said Terrilli. ‘If anything goes wrong, there’s no association with us. And I couldn’t risk that, right on our doorstep.’
‘What is it?’
‘The Russian stamp collection.’
‘A personal thing,’ said Santano immediately.
The speed of the man’s reaction showed that his loyalty was first to the organisation and then to him, Terrilli realised. It would be well to get Chambine alongside as soon as possible.
‘Yes,’ agreed Terrilli, ‘a personal thing.’
‘I don’t like the idea of outside people,’ said Santano, coming as near as he dared to criticism.
Again Terrilli judged the man’s concern to be over the danger to their set-up, rather than any possible personal difficulty.
‘I’ve chosen them carefully,’ said Terrilli. ‘They’re good men.’
‘Shouldn’t I run a check, just to make sure? There are still four full days.’
‘I told you,’ Terrilli reminded him. ‘I don’t want anything to be associated with us.’
‘But they must know!’
‘One does, that’s all.’
‘So all he’s got to do is talk, if he gets picked up.’
‘I don’t think he will.’
‘It’s difficult to assess what a man will do, offered the choice between twenty years and a deal.’
‘He knows I’d have him killed, whatever protection was promised.’
‘Let’s hope he remembers,’ said Santano.
‘There are two vehicles,’ said Terrilli. From his wallet he took the numbers of the hire cars that Chambine had given him earlier in Disneyworld. ‘Once they’re in, close the gates. But have people standing by. They’re leaving immediately after the pay-off. No one will remain here longer than fifteen minutes.’
‘If there’s a chase, the law will be led straight to us,’ said Santano.
‘I’m confident there won’t be.’
‘We can’t be sure.’
‘This is how I want it to be,’ said Terrilli, rejecting the argument. Santano was right, he knew.
‘All right,’ said the younger man tightly.
‘I want everyone ready,’ emphasised Terrilli. ‘No mistakes.’
‘There won’t be any,’ promised Santano.
Terrilli decided he had been wise to wait until now before telling Santano what was to happen. There was insufficient time for the organisation to make any effective protest. But one would be made, he was sure.
‘No method of identification apart from the car numbers?’ queried Santano.
‘That’ll be all that’s necessary.’
Santano rose, moving towards the door again.
‘Make sure everyone knows,’ repeated Terrilli, not appreciating the opening he was giving the other man.
‘Everyone will know,’ said Santano heavily.
Charlie Muffin knew that if they had reacted to his telephone call, the Russians had to be in place by now. Which meant he must identify them. Idly, through most of the day, he had moved about the exhibition and its immediate vicinity, aware of the pointlessness of his actions, but trying to mark the Russian agents anyway. He had suspected no one, which could be either good – if they were that expert – or bad, if Moscow hadn’t bothered to respond. He planned the test carefully, knowing there would not be a second chance. By one o’clock in the morning, the hotel was becoming deserted, only a few late-night drinkers and a noisy party remained in the Alcazar. He had needed Pendlebury with him, because in his company those watching Charlie would be less alert. Pendlebury had maintained some reserve, even though he had drunk enough for Charlie to have expected him to relax. Charlie left his barstool at one-fifteen, heading towards the washroom. In his jacket pocket, the knife he had taken from the breakfast table and which he was still unsure would be strong enough for the purpose, bumped against his side. At the door to the washroom, he suddenly veered away, hurrying now towards the car park. He had already chosen the window into the exhibition room, one that was furthest away from the lights.
The window edge was rimmed, which made it difficult to put the blade between it and the sill and twice Charlie slipped, once almost cutting his hand. Satisfied at last that there was sufficient leverage, he paused, breathing heavily to prepare himself for the run that was to follow, then twisted and jerked the knife upwards.
The blade snapped with sufficient force to sting his hand, but the window opened wide enough to trigger the alarm. It burst out, a discordantly strident note.
Charlie managed to regain the foyer seconds after Pendlebury had lumbered, startled, from the bar. Charlie stood just inside the entrance, alert to everything. The uniformed security men came running from their cubbyhole, holster flaps unbuttoned, gazing wildly around and making for the main entrance to the hall. Those whom Charlie had already identified from their surveillance of him, and about five whom he had not, rushed flustered into the foyer, making their identification as F.B.I. operatives easy by looking to Pendlebury for guidance.
That left about fifteen other people just ahead of the curiosity seekers, who were filling the reception area. Foreign, judged Charlie, immediately. But they were certainly not Slavic. More Latin, from their colouring. And there was one man who didn’t fit the pattern or appear to be part of the group, very fair and American-looking. Someone who had been in the lobby by chance, decided Charlie, looking away from Williamson.
The Russian made no response to Charlie’s scrutiny. An hour before, he had had confirmation from Washington, from their voice-print test, that it was Charlie on the tape, and he was now considering how to kill the man, obedient to his instructions. It wouldn’t be very difficult, he decided.
At Pendlebury’s urging, the security men unlocked the main doors into the exhibition room and flooded it with light. As they were about to enter, another of Pendlebury’s people came in from the car park carrying the handle of the broken knife. As Pendlebury seized it, remaining near the entrance, Charlie wandered up and said quietly, ‘It took eight minutes.’
Pendlebury frowned up at him.
‘From the moment the alarm sounded to the time the security men went in. It was eight minutes,’ said Charlie.
‘Did you stage this?’ demanded Pendlebury, his face whitening with the beginning of rage. There was none of the drunkenness which Charlie had suspected earlier in the bar.
‘Hardly good enough, eight minutes,’ said Charlie. ‘Thieves could be half way to Miami by now.’
Heppert hurried up to Pendlebury. Charlie could see pyjama bottoms leaking from beneath the man’s trousers.
‘Nothing gone,’ reported the Pinkerton’s man. ‘Knife snapped as the window was being forced.’
‘I’m waiting for an answer,’ said Pendlebury to Charlie.
‘Yes,’ admitted Charlie. ‘I wanted to see how efficient things really were. I’m not impressed.’
‘And I’m not impressed by fucking play-acting.’
‘It wasn’t play-acting,’ said Charlie. ‘It was a valid security exercise that I’ve got every right to make. So don’t fuck and rage at me; you should be shouting at people asleep on the job.’
From outside came the sound of sirens and then the flashing of revolving lights as the local police tyre-howled into the car park.