The Inscrutable Charlie Muffin (21 page)

‘Came to fire Robert.’

She smiled with the pride of a child remembering a difficult multiplication table.

‘Lu lost,’ said Charlie. ‘Too many other people did, as well. But Lu lost.’

There was no comprehension.

‘Robert came here,’ she said, mouthing the words slowly. ‘That night. He came here.’

He reached out again, trying physically to squeeze some reaction from her.

‘Lu has been arrested,’ he said.

‘Very brave, coming here by himself. Round-eyes aren’t allowed … now they’ve made me come here … work here … punishment …’

Charlie lodged against the barstool, looking at her sadly. The heroin had almost completely blanketed her mind. She would take months to cure. Months of patient, constant care. He looked at his watch. The flights bringing in the American investigation teams to supplement those already in the colony would be arriving within three hours.

It would have to be someone else.

She blinked her eyes, as if remembering something.

‘All night,’ she said. ‘Only twenty dollars. Anything you want.’

She snatched out, suddenly desperate when she saw him move.

‘Fifteen then. Anything you want for fifteen.’

He shrugged her hand away, threading between the unsteady tables again. It didn’t matter if he collided with anybody, he realised. They had wanted him to find her and see what had happened.

‘Bastard,’ she screamed, behind him. ‘Fired Robert.’

Yes, thought Charlie, stepping unsteadily out into the street. He was a bastard. Literally. And in every other way. Usually he wasn’t as ashamed of it as he was now. She wouldn’t have understood had he tried to explain he wasn’t abandoning her.

22

Willoughby needed movement to let off his excitement, striding without direction about the room. For the first time he was holding himself upright, Charlie saw. He was remarkably tall.

‘Unbelievable,’ said the underwriter, groping for words sufficient to express himself. ‘A miracle, nothing short of a miracle …’

The grandfather clock in the corner of Willoughby’s office chimed the half-hour and Charlie looked across to it. Still another hour before the appointment. The chiropodist would probably insist upon the supports being put into his shoes. Mean another new pair, he supposed. Wonder how difficult it would be, adjusting to an artificial lump beneath each foot?

‘People got hurt,’ Charlie reminded him, puncturing the other man’s euphoria. ‘Too many people.’

Willoughby stopped the pacing, looking seriously at Charlie.

‘And not just in Hong Kong,’ said the underwriter, obscurely.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Charlie. Despite the chiropodist, he could still get to Guildford before the rush-hour. He hoped Edith’s grave hadn’t become too neglected.

Willoughby shook himself, like a dog throwing off water:

‘It’s not important. Incidentally, there was quite a lot of money due to Robert Nelson. I sent it to our new broker …’

‘There was a woman,’ said Charlie hopefully. ‘It’s important to arrange something for her …’

‘Jenny Lin Lee?’ interrupted Willoughby.

Charlie nodded.

‘She’s dead.’

‘Oh.’

‘Massive drug overdose, apparently,’ said the underwriter. ‘The police have decided it was self-administered, so there’s no question of any crime.’

Already stencilled ‘closed’ and filed in one of Johnson’s neat little cabinets by one of his neat little clerks, thought Charlie. Again he’d been too late.

‘She knew Lu would win some sort of victory,’ said Charlie softly.

‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ said Charlie.

‘I’ll always be indebted to you,’ declared the underwriter, sitting at last at his desk.

‘It took me a long time to realise how long I’d been away,’ said Charlie. ‘Almost too long.’

He would never know about the Peking ambassador, he thought. Not until it was too late, anyway.

‘I wouldn’t like it to end,’ said Willoughby. ‘In fact, Clarissa wants to meet you.’

‘Clarissa?’

‘My wife. Let’s meet socially, very soon.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’m sorry for the way all this began, Charlie. It was wrong to treat you as I did.’

‘Forget it.’

‘I’d like the association to continue.’

Charlie shifted, uncertainly. How soon would it be before the fear diminished and the boredom began eating away at him again?

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I made a lot of mistakes.’

‘But won in the end.’

‘Only just.’

Which was all he could ever hope for, decided Charlie. To win. By a small margin.

A Biography of Brian Freemantle

Brian Freemantle (b. 1936) is one of Britain’s most prolific and accomplished authors of spy fiction. His novels have sold more than ten million copies worldwide, and have been optioned for numerous film and television adaptations.

Born in Southampton, on the southern coast of England, Freemantle began his career as a journalist. In 1975, as the foreign editor at the
Daily Mail
, he made headlines during the American evacuation of Saigon: As the North Vietnamese closed in on the city, Freemantle became worried about the future of the city’s orphans. He lobbied his superiors at the paper to take action, and they agreed to fund an evacuation for the children. In three days, Freemantle organized a thirty-six-hour helicopter airlift for ninety-nine children, who were transported to Britain. In a flash of dramatic inspiration, he changed nearly one hundred lives—and sold a bundle of newspapers.

Although he began writing espionage fiction in the late 1960s, he first won fame in 1977, with
Charlie M
. That book introduced the world to Charlie Muffin—a disheveled spy with a skill set more bureaucratic than Bond-like. The novel, which drew favorable comparisons to the work of John Le Carré, was a hit, and Freemantle began writing sequels. The sixth in the series,
The Blind Run
, was nominated for an Edgar Award for Best Novel. To date, Freemantle has penned fourteen titles in the Charlie Muffin series, the most recent of which is
Red Star Rising
(2010), which brought back the popular spy after a nine-year absence.

In addition to the stories of Charlie Muffin, Freemantle has written more than two dozen standalone novels, many of them under pseudonyms including Jonathan Evans and Andrea Hart. Freemantle’s other series include two books about Sebastian Holmes, an illegitimate son of Sherlock Holmes, and the four Cowley and Danilov books, which were written in the years after the end of the Cold War and follow an odd pair of detectives—an FBI operative and the head of Russia’s organized crime bureau.

Freemantle lives and works in London, England.

A school photograph of Brian Freemantle at age twelve.

Brian Freemantle, at age fourteen, with his mother, Violet, at the country estate of a family acquaintance, Major Mears.

Freemantle’s parents, Harold and Violet Freemantle, at the country estate of Major Mears.

Brian Freemantle and his wife, Maureen, on their wedding day. They were married on December 8, 1956, in Southampton, where both were born and spent their childhoods. Although they attended the same schools, they did not meet until after they had both left Southampton.

Brian Freemantle (right) with photographer Bob Lowry in 1959. Freemantle and Lowry opened a branch office of the
Bristol Evening World
together in Trowbridge, in Wiltshire, England.

A bearded Freemantle with his wife, Maureen, circa 1971. He grew the beard for an undercover newspaper assignment in what was then known as Czechoslovakia.