‘And their arrival took twenty-two minutes,’ said Charlie, offering the American a sight of his watch for confirmation. ‘I’d been assured it would only take ten.’
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ said Pendlebury, still angry but more controlled now.
‘My job,’ replied Charlie. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
It had taken all Chambine’s self control to remain in the cocktail lounge when the alarm sounded, waiting for the protection of the small crowd that took several minutes to form before running to the foyer, but he managed it. He stayed on the edge and therefore concealed, watching the conversation between Pendlebury and Charlie and the local police. News that it was a false alarm quickly spread through the people in the foyer, who began drifting back to the other rooms. Chambine remained where he was able to see into the hall while the window was being checked for permanent damage before being refastened and the doors relocked by the uniformed guards.
It was another five minutes before one passed near enough for Chambine to address him without it appearing suspect.
‘What was it?’ he asked casually.
‘Some sort of test,’ said the man. ‘Frightened the shit out of me.’
‘Me too,’ said Chambine honestly.
19
For three hours after his inconclusive and latterly, with Pendlebury, rowdy attempt to discover if the Russians had responded to his Washington call, Charlie had tried to evolve a further, confirming check. He was unhappy with the only idea that occurred to him, but couldn’t think of another, so he decided to try it anyway. If it proved nothing, then he was the only person inconvenienced. The alarm call awoke him gritty-eyed and disorientated and immediately convinced that his plan was more stupid now than it had seemed barely four hours earlier. But he was awake now, so sod it.
It was not yet dawn, although there was a faint yellow tinge where the sun would rise. Without its hardness, both the sky and sea were smudged grey. Charlie dressed quickly without bothering to wash or shave, and although he knew he’d be buggered at the end, ignored the lift and descended the eighteen floors by the stairs. He was panting by the time he reached the first floor and remained for several minutes inside the stair-well, recovering his breath, before finally going down to the ground level. He opened the doors with the minimum of noise and then strode purposefully across the lobby towards the exit. The night staff were still behind the desk in the reception area and several porters were clustered in the bell captain’s annexe. One of the uniformed guards of the exhibition had just finished his half-hourly check and nodded to Charlie, who responded, looking beyond the man to where the seats were.
Three of the men whom he had identified with his phoney alarm the night before were still sitting there, trying their best to look like dawn-party people who would not go to bed.
As he went through the exit into the car park, attempting to give the impression of someone embarking upon an early morning constitutional walk, Charlie was reminded of his earlier impression: definitely Latin. That would provide excellent cover, in a State as Spanish-influenced as Florida; exactly the sort of precaution that Kalenin would consider.
Remembering his own surveillance, Charlie went briskly north along South County Road, past the private road entrance and then turned left into Royal Poinciana Way. Once he turned, trying to catch sight of those whom he expected to be following, but saw no one. At the next junction he turned south, down Cocoanut Row and then completed the square into Cocoanut Walk to take him back to the Breakers. By the time he approached the hotel the sun was up and there was already the slight, breathless warmth indicating that it would be a hot day. As he went through the car park, he saw two more of the men he’d picked out in the lobby the previous night. The three he had seen earlier had left the reception area.
‘The guard has changed,’ he told himself.
Charlie took the lift back to his suite. He showered away the early morning perspiration and then gratefully clambered back into bed. His feet and legs throbbed from the unaccustomed exercise and he sat with his back to the headboard, trying to massage some relief into them.
He could still be mistaken about the people whom he believed the Russians had put in, Charlie realised. But the instinct on which he placed so much reliance told him he wasn’t. He let his mind run over what he had established so far, trying to form a complete picture. He sighed, transferring his attention from his right leg to his foot. He had all the parts, he decided, but still he didn’t know where to put them in the puzzle; which meant the most important item was still absent.
‘You still aren’t in control, Charlie,’ he warned himself. And then another idea came and Charlie smiled, recognising it as infinitely better than the one which had sent him jogging around Palm Beach streets before it was even light.
Within ten minutes he was connected to Willoughby in London. The underwriter listened without interruption as Charlie outlined his proposal.
‘It would never work,’ said Willoughby when Charlie had finished. ‘Not if they wanted to challenge it in court.’
‘I don’t expect them to,’ said Charlie. ‘I just want to cause more upset, to see which way people will jump.’
‘Were these assurances about the time it would take security people and civil police to attend an emergency written down?’ asked Willoughby.
‘No,’ said Charlie, ‘they were verbal undertakings, given by a man called Heppert. He’s a Pinkerton employee.’
‘Then it certainly wouldn’t be sufficient,’ insisted the underwriter. ‘Our insurance is with the organisers, not with the security firm. And verbal agreements are always the most difficult to prove anyway.’
‘But the policy demands proper security. And we are claiming that it isn’t proper.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Three things. Firstly, advise Pinkerton’s that you are considering withdrawing cover because of what transpired when your employee staged a simple test last night. Secondly, send exactly the same warning to the organisers. And thirdly, – and this is the most important – issue a press release as soon as possible. I want this picked up as quickly and as widely as we can manage.’
‘Our lawyers would never endorse it,’ persisted Willoughby.
‘They might if something did happen to the exhibition,’ argued Charlie. ‘And I’m not concerned if we have to back down in two or three days. The effect I’m hoping for will have been achieved by then, or it never will.’
‘Are you sure this is necessary to protect the cover?’
‘I wouldn’t have bothered calling you if I hadn’t been.’
‘It could expose the company to a certain amount of ridicule,’ said Willoughby reluctantly.
‘What’s more important, minor ridicule or?3,000,000?’
‘I’ll do it if it’s the only way.’
‘It is. Don’t forget the press release to the American news agencies. That’s most important.’
Charlie eased himself down into the bed. He still had time to sleep before any response. And all that bloody walking had made him very tired.
General Valery Kalenin was such a self-contained man that there had been very few occasions in his life when he had ever been dumbfounded. But had he been asked, which he never was, he would have readily admitted to open-mouthed surprise as he had sat in his bare office, working his way through the photographs that Williamson had provided and had discovered within minutes a picture of a man he knew so well.
Kalenin had never been completely satisfied that Charlie Muffin had perished in the mysterious mid-air explosion of the American Air Force plane. That plane, it had taken him six months to discover, had been returning at least fifty C.I.A. men to Washington after the London vengeance hunt in which Charlie’s wife had died. The charred passport and items of personal belongings discovered in the wreckage had invited belief, of course. But for someone who knew Charlie as well as Kalenin did, it also invited the idea that the material had been planted aboard a plane destroyed in retribution for what had happened to the woman.