Charlie dated his suspicion of routine to his National Service, and the war games staged to show the Russians just how prepared for attack the West was; men with red arm bands running around straight-faced and calling their mates in green arm bands the enemy. He admitted the basic usefulness of such exercises, of course, training people how to move tanks and equipment and men about. But like a complicated dance which looked effective once you’d got the steps right, it worked because people learned a pattern and then always conformed to it. And the danger of conforming to routine or categories or patterns was that, like the dancing lessons or model railways, things always went from A to B to C in an undisturbed logic. Charlie couldn’t dance and had never collected train numbers. And in the world in which he had lived for such a long time, men didn’t wear arm bands to identify themselves as the bad guys any more than they obeyed rules so that everyone would know what everyone else was doing.
The rigidity of the security pattern for the stamp exhibition immediately disturbed him, long before he isolated something that didn’t make sense. He waited for Heppert to remark upon it, but the man said nothing and so Charlie didn’t ask why the video-tape cameras that were to record everything that occurred in the exhibition had been installed in duplicate in the manner they had.
‘Good?’ asked Heppert at the end of the tour.
‘Adequate,’ said Charlie.
‘We hope more than that.’
Charlie turned on hearing the carefully modulated voice. The speaker was a tall, well tailored and coiffured man, his white hair purposely worn long, and he had that upright yet slightly languid stance necessary for the patrician appearance for which he was obviously striving.
‘Senator Kelvin Cosgrove.’ Heppert made the introduction with servility. ‘Originator of the exhibition and chairman of the organising committee…’ He turned to the politician. ‘… the representative of Lloyd’s of London,’ he finished.
‘We’ve been expecting you,’ said Cosgrove, with just the faintest trace of disappointment. Charlie withstood the senator’s examination, feeling like an under-nourished African arrival at a cotton plantation. At least the man managed to hold back from feeling his muscles or examining his teeth.
‘Satisfied?’ demanded the man. His voice clearly indicated Charlie’s subservient role: someone who had to be tolerated but accorded only the minimum of attention.
‘Seems all right,’ he said, conscious of Heppert’s wince. The man would have ulcers, Charlie knew.
Cosgrove turned and until he did so Charlie was unaware of another man standing in the shadow of the doorway.
‘Our insurers seem only moderately impressed,’ said Cosgrove condescendingly.
Heppert’s customary unease seemed to increase as the third man moved further into the room.
‘Our over-all security controller,’ he said, continuing the introductions. ‘Mr Jack Pendlebury.’
‘I haven’t noticed any accreditation from you,’ said the man abruptly.
‘No,’ agreed Charlie, ignoring the attempt at intimidation. ‘Why don’t you ask for it?’
Pendlebury stiffened and glanced almost imperceptibly towards the politician, as if he were worried at being so openly confronted.
‘May I see it?’
‘Of course,’ said Charlie, his smile purposely wide.
Charlie offered his authority from Willoughby’s firm, watching as Pendlebury studied the papers. Pendlebury’s hand had the very slightest twitch and the skin around his eyes was pinched. Not by the concentration of reading, but by pain, Charlie guessed. He got the confirmation when Pendlebury looked up at him and Charlie saw the red-veined eyes. The man had a hangover.
‘Passport,’ demanded Pendlebury.
Charlie recognised the man’s attempt at recovery. He groped through his pockets, appearing unable immediately to locate it, and just when Cosgrove began moving impatiently, produced the document for Pendlebury to compare the photograph in it with the one on Willoughby’s authorised identity card.
‘There was a letter, sent in advance,’ Charlie reminded them. ‘To both you and the organisers.’
‘Yes,’ said Pendlebury.
‘With a photograph,’ added Charlie.
Pendlebury felt into the rear pocket of his trousers and came out with his hand bunched around a wad of papers. Some of the letters and notes must have been weeks old to judge from the tattered, blackened edges. With what appeared to be surprise he discovered a five-dollar bill, his face losing its tenseness for the first time, and then located the photograph he was seeking.
‘Got it here,’ he said. Pendlebury waited, but when Charlie said nothing, went on, ‘I guess you’ll do. Seen the security?’
‘A quick tour,’ said Charlie.
Pendlebury turned, including Cosgrove in the conversation.
‘And you’re happy?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ qualified Charlie. ‘It’s impossible to guarantee security for an exhibition held in a hotel.’
He was aware of Heppert and the senator looking at him sharply, as if he were being offensive, but Pendlebury smiled again. It was a faint expression, as if the effort hurt.
‘Right,’ agreed Pendlebury.
‘It would need a clever man to steal anything from here,’ insisted Cosgrove, defensively.
‘That’s what successful crooks are, clever,’ said Pendlebury and Charlie warmed to the man, conscious that the senator was being patronised.
‘At least it’s only here for a week,’ said Charlie.
‘But in Florida for three,’ said Pendlebury. ‘Lots of time for a clever man to make some detailed plans. We’re going to have to watch ourselves.’
‘We’ve had enough rehearsals, both here and in Palm Beach,’ said Heppert. ‘In Florida we achieved complete security cover five minutes after a full-scale alert, when none of the guards was expecting it.’
‘That’s right,’ said Pendlebury. ‘And everything went like a dream. Civil police back-up came in ten minutes.’
Charlie recognised that now Pendlebury was patronising the other Pinkerton’s man. Heppert didn’t appear to realise it.
‘Is there anything you’d like to discuss with me?’ said Cosgrove to Charlie. The tone of voice indicated that the time allowed for Charlie’s audience had expired.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Charlie. The senator was the sort of man who would like to be called ‘sir’ Charlie knew, purposely avoiding the courtesy. He was fleetingly reminded of the men who had taken over the Department from Willoughby’s father and plotted his death. They’d been irritated by his lack of politeness too.
‘I’ll be in Florida, as well as here,’ said the man graciously. ‘Always available if you need me.’
‘Thank you,’ said Charlie. ‘I’ll remember that.’
The small group stood watching the senator stride regally away and when Pendlebury turned back, Charlie saw that he was smiling contemptuously. The man avoided making any open criticism.
‘Suppose we’re going to be together for a while,’ said Pendlebury, as if the awareness had only just come to him.
‘Yes,’ said Charlie.
‘So we should get to know each other?’
‘Might be an idea.’
Pendlebury looked across the foyer, to the Sir Harry bar.
‘Drink?’
‘Fine,’ agreed Charlie. For a man who looked as bad as Pendlebury, to go so early into a bar either indicated an act of supreme courage or someone long accustomed to booze.
‘Coming?’ Pendlebury asked the other Pinkerton’s man.
Heppert put his hand to his stomach, confirming Charlie’s thought about ulcers.
‘Bad stomach,’ he said. ‘Maybe another time.’
Pendlebury turned away without attempting any persuasion, leading the way, and Charlie became completely aware of the other man’s appearance. The trousers were quite shapeless and the jacket hung oddly backwards off his shoulders, as if it were trying to escape the embarrassment. From behind, Pendlebury looked like a very old elephant on his way to wherever it is elephants go to die. As he passed the jeweller’s window, Charlie caught sight of himself in the window reflection and saw that there was a self-satisfied smirk on his face. He frowned, recognising it as unjustified. He recognised something else, too. He could have been the second elephant in the line. It was easy to understand the disappointment of Senator Cosgrove, who would believe a man was as sharp as the crease in his trousers.