'I did the same journey on a stolen Nazi motorcycle and a suitcase full of worthless reichsmarks.'
'Yet your rise was so much more meteoric.'
It was a put-down, Laski realized: Fett was saying We may be jumped-up Polish Jews, but we're not half as jumped-up as you. The stockbroker was Laski's match at this game; and with those spectacles to hide his expression he did not need the light behind him. Laski smiled. 'You're like your father. One never knew what he was thinking.'
'You haven't yet given me anything to think about.'
'Ah.' So the small talk is over, Laski thought. 'I'm sorry my phone call was a little mysterious. It was good of you to see me at short notice.'
'You said you had a seven-figure proposal to put to one of my clients: how could I not see you? Would you like a cigar?' Fett got up and proffered a box from a side table.
Laski said: 'Thank you.' He lingered a little too long over his choice; then, as his hand descended to take a cigar, he said: 'I want to buy Hamilton Holdings from Derek Hamilton.'
The timing was perfect, but Fett showed no flicker of surprise. Laski had hoped he might drop the box. But, of course, Fett had known Laski would choose that moment to drop the bombshell, had created the moment for just that purpose.
He closed the box and gave Laski a light without speaking. He sat down again and crossed his legs. 'Hamilton Holdings, for seven figures.'
'Exactly one million pounds. When a man sells his life's work, he is entitled to a nice round figure.'
'Oh, I see the psychology of your approach,' Fett said lightly. 'This is not entirely unexpected.'
'What?'
'I don't mean we expected you. We expected somebody. The time is ripe.'
'The bid is substantially more than the value of the shares at current prices.'
'The margin is about right,' Fett said.
Laski spread his hands, palms upward, in a gesture of appeal. 'Let's not fence,' he said. 'It's a high offer.'
'But less than what the shares will be worth if Derek's syndicate gets the oil well.'
'Which brings me to my only condition. The offer depends upon the deal being done this morning.'
Fett looked at his watch. 'It's almost eleven. Do you really think this could be done-even assuming Derek's interested-in one hour?'
Laski tapped his briefcase. 'I have all the necessary documents drawn up.'
'We could hardly read them-'
'I also have a letter of intent containing heads of agreement. That will satisfy me.'
'I should have guessed you would be prepared.' Fett considered for a moment. 'Of course, if Derek doesn't get the oil well, the shares will probably go down a bit.'
'I am a gambler.' Laski smiled.
Fett continued: 'In which case, you will sell off the company's assets and close down the unprofitable branches.'
'Not at all,' Laski lied. 'I think it could be profitable in its present form with new top management.'
'You're probably right. Well, it's a sensible offer, one that I'm obliged to put to the client.'
'Don't play hard to get. Think of the commission on a million pounds.'
'Yes,' Fett said coldly. 'I'll ring Derek.' He picked up a phone from a coffee table and said: 'Derek Hamilton, please.'
Laski puffed at his cigar and concealed his anxiety.
'Derek, it's Nathaniel. I've got Felix Laski with me. He's made an offer.' There was a pause. 'Yes, we did, didn't we? One million in round figures. You would… all right. We'll be here. What? Ah… I see.' He gave a faintly embarrassed laugh. 'Ten minutes.' He put the phone down. 'Well, Laski, he's coming over. Let's read those documents of yours while we're waiting.'
Laski could not resist saying: 'He's interested, then.'
'He could be.'
'He said something else, didn't he?'
Fett gave the embarrassed little laugh again. 'I suppose there's no harm in telling you. He said that if he gives you the company by midday, he wants the money in his hand by noon.'
ELEVEN A.M.
16
Kevin Hart found the address the news desk had given him and parked on a yellow line. His car was a two- year-old Rover with a V8 engine, for he was a bachelor, and the Evening Post paid Fleet Street salaries, so he was a good deal wealthier than most men aged twenty-two. He knew this, and he took pleasure in it; and he was not old enough to discreetly conceal that pleasure, which was why men like Arthur Cole disliked him.
Arthur had been very ratty when he came out of the editor's conference. He had sat behind the news desk, given out a batch of assignments in the usual way, then called Kevin and told him to come around to his side of the desk and sit down: a sure sign that he was about to be given what the reporters called a bollocking.
Arthur had surprised him by talking, not about the way he had barged into the conference, but about the story. He had asked: 'What was the voice like?'
Kevin said: 'Middle-aged man, Home Counties accent. He was choosing his words. Maybe too carefully-he might have been drunk, or distressed.'
'That's not the voice I heard this morning,' Arthur mused. 'Mine was younger, and Cockney. What did yours say?'
Kevin read from his shorthand. 'I am Tim Fitzpeterson, and I am being blackmailed by two people called Laski and Cox. I want you to crucify the bastards when I'm gone.'
Arthur shook his head in disbelief. 'That all?'
'Well, I asked what they were blackmailing him with, and he said, 'God, you're all the same,' and put the phone down on me.' Kevin paused, expecting a rebuke. 'Was that the wrong question?'
Arthur shrugged. 'It was, but I can't think of a right one.' He picked up the phone and dialed, then handed the receiver to Kevin. 'Ask him if he's phoned us in the last half hour.'
Kevin listened for a moment, then cradled the handset. 'Busy signal.'
'No help.' Arthur patted his pockets, looking for cigarettes.
'You're giving it up,' said Kevin, recognizing the symptoms.
'So I am.' Arthur began to chew his nails. 'You see, the blackmailer's biggest hold over a politician is the threat to go to the newspapers. Therefore, the blackmailers wouldn't ring us and give us the story. That would be throwing away their trump card. By the same token, since the papers are what the victim fears, he wouldn't ring us and say he was being blackmailed.' With the air of one who comes to a final conclusion, he finished: 'That's why I think the whole thing is a hoax.'
Kevin took it for a dismissal. He stood up. 'I'll get back to the oil story.'
'No,' Arthur said. 'We've got to check it out. You'd better go round there and knock on his door.'
'Oh, good.'
'But next time you think of interrupting an editor's conference, sit down and count to one hundred first.'
Kevin could not suppress a grin. 'Sure.'
But the more he thought about it, the less chance he gave the story of standing up. In the car he had tried to recall what he knew of Tim Fitzpeterson. The man was a low-profile moderate. He had a degree in economics, and was reputed to be clever, but he just did not seem to be sufficiently lively or imaginative a person to provide blackmailers with any raw material. Kevin recalled a photograph of Fitzpeterson and family-a plain wife and three awkward girls-on a Spanish beach. The politician had worn a dreadful pair of khaki shorts.
At first sight, the building outside which Kevin now stood seemed an unlikely love nest. It was a dirty gray thirties block in a Westminster backstreet. Had it not been so close to Parliament, it would have become a slum by
