Ruttgers, who had been initially grateful for the seating arrangement, moved uncomfortably in front of the men he had personally led to disaster, realising too late its drawbacks. Needing the activity, he lighted the predictable cigarette.
‘Because of this man …’ announced Smith, dramatically. He pressed the control button. A greatly enlarged picture, several times bigger than life, of Charlie Muffin appeared on the screen. It had been taken in the churchyard. Several times Smith pressed the button, throwing a kaleidoscope of photographs on the wall, shots of Charlie Muffin in Zurich, coming through passport control at London airport, outside his Brighton house and entering and leaving the offices of Rupert Willoughby.
‘Taken,’ said Smith, ‘by the British.’
He paused to let the murmur which went through the room settle into silence. It was like baiting animals, bringing them to the point where their only desire was to fight, thought the Director.
‘Charlie Muffin has been found,’ he declared.
He waited again for the announcement to be assimilated.
‘Found,’ he picked up, ‘by a very painstaking but rewarding operation conducted by the British …’
There was complete silence in the room, realised Smith. The concentration upon what he was saying was absolute. He sighed, shuffling the prepared speech in his hand.
‘I wish to make it quite clear at the outset that since the discovery of the man, the handling of the affair had been jointly handled by the British and ourselves.’
He appeared to lose a sheet of notes, then stared up at them.
‘At very high level,’ he emphasised.
He waited for them to assess the importance, then went on: ‘A certain course had been decided upon, a course of which you’ve no need to be aware …’
Harsh again, recognised Smith. But necessary, a reminder of just how far down they’d all been relegated. After this they’d be clerks at Langley until retirement, with only the Virginia countryside to relieve the boredom.
‘It is sufficient for you to know that no immediate action – open action, anyway – is being taken against Charlie Muffin …’
The noise started again, the sound of surprise this time.
‘Which does, of course,’ continued the C.I.A. chief, ‘create a danger.’
He stopped once more. He’d really fucked it up, he decided honestly.
The response from the room was growing louder and several men were trying to catch his attention, to ask questions.
‘And that is why I have gathered you here,’ said Smith quickly, trying to subdue the clamour. ‘The British consider the surveillance they have established is sufficient and certainly, thus far, it has proven to be. But I have no intention whatsoever of this Agency taking a subservient role in the continuing operation envisaged by the British.’
Smith sipped from a glass of water and in the gap a man at the front blurted: ‘You mean we are going to stop working with the British?’
Smith smiled, the timing of the question over-riding any annoyance at the interruption.
‘I intend giving the impression of continued co-operation,’ he said. ‘Before this meeting is over, you will all be given dossiers containing every item of information about Charlie Muffin that the British have so far been able to assemble … it is quite extensive. With the benefit of that information, we are going to establish our own, independent operation. When the shit hits the fan, I still want us wearing clean white suits.’
The persistent questioner in the front row pulled forward again.
‘He will be eliminated, sir, won’t he? Charlie Muffin will be eliminated?’
It was almost a plea, thought Smith. He moved to speak, but Ruttgers responded ahead of him, emotion momentarily washing away his awareness of his reduced role.
‘Oh, yes,’ said the ex-Director, fervently. ‘He’ll be eliminated. I promise you that.’
‘But not until I’ve given the explicit order,’ instructed Smith.
Charlie stood at the lounge window of the Brighton house, gazing out at the tree-lined avenue. The uniformed policeman who had passed twice was standing at the corner now, stamping his feet against the early evening chill. Where, wondered Charlie, were the others?
He turned into the room, staring at the bottles grouped on the table by the far wall. No, he decided easily. He didn’t need it. Not any more.
‘What I need,’ he told himself, ‘is for them to over-reach themselves. Just once.’
And Edith, he thought. He wanted her by him very much. But not yet. He had to get a clearer indication of what was happening before putting her to any more risk than she already faced. Poor Edith.
SEVENTEEN
Charlie arrived in Rupert Willoughby’s office an hour after making the telephone call for the confirmation he scarcely needed. The underwriter greeted him with an attitude that swung between nervousness and anger. At last, thought Charlie. He hoped the growing awareness wouldn’t affect the man’s memory of his father.
‘You knew we’d covered the exhibition?’ challenged Willoughby immediately. Anger first, Charlie accepted.
‘It was obvious,’ said Charlie. ‘Once I heard of the robbery. And more particularly, what was stolen and from whom.’
‘What, does it mean?’
‘That the department has known from the very beginning of our meeting. That they know I’ve put money into your firm. That they had you under permanent observation for as long as they’ve been watching me. And that in one operation they intend hitting back at everyone.’
Willoughby nodded, as if agreeing some private thought. His throat was moving, jerkily.
‘No wonder my father was so frightened in the last year,’ he said.
‘I warned you,’ Charlie reminded him.
Willoughby looked at him, but said nothing.
‘Tell me about the cover,’ said Charlie.
Willoughby pulled a file towards him, running his hand through the papers.
‘Completely ordinary,’ he said. ‘For an exhibition of this value, the government always goes on to the London market, through Lloyd’s. For us, it’s usually a copper-bottomed profit. Security is absolute but because of the value and alleged risk, we can impose a high premium.’
‘How much cover did you offer?’
‘Two and a half million,’ said Willoughby.
‘What happens now?’
‘Claim to be filed. And then the squabbling begins, to gain time.’
‘You expect a sell back?’
Willoughby looked surprised.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘That’s what always happens in a case like this.’
‘What percentage?’
‘Varies. Usually ten.’
Charlie laughed, appearing genuinely amused.
‘Two hundred and fifty thousand,’ he said. ‘Exactly what I put in. They don’t mean me to misunderstand for a moment, do they?’
‘Is it significant?’ asked Willoughby.
‘Very,’ said Charlie. To continue would mean admitting he was a thief. The man deserved the honesty, he decided.
‘They want to recover $500,000 from me. Plus interest,’ he said. ‘They got almost half from the Brighton robbery. This would be the remainder.’
Willoughby sat, waiting. It was impossible to judge from the expression on his face whether there was any
