gently, and look at her nakedness for a few moments; then I'll lie beside her, and kiss her belly, and her thighs, and her breasts, until she wakes; and then I'll make love to her again.
He looked away from her and out of the window, savoring the anticipation. The Rolls was still there, like a gray slug in the gutter. For some reason it bothered him. He put it out of his mind, and went over to wake the girl.
2
Felix Laski did not have much money, despite the fact that he was very rich. His wealth took the form of shares, land, buildings, and occasionally more nebulous assets like half a film script or one third of an invention for making instant potato chips. Newspapers were fond of saying that if all his riches were turned into cash, he would have so many millions of pounds; and Laski was equally fond of pointing out that to turn his riches into cash would be close to impossible.
He walked from Waterloo railway station to the City, because he believed that laziness caused heart attacks in men of his age. This concern with his health was foolish, for he was as fit a fifty-year-old as could be found within the Square Mile. Just short of six feet tall, with a chest like the stern of a battle-ship, he was about as vulnerable to cardiac arrest as a young ox.
He cut a striking figure, walking across Blackfriars Bridge in the brittle sunshine of the early morning. His clothes were expensive, from the blue silk shirt to the handmade shoes; by City standards he was a dandy. This was because every man in the village where Laski had been born wore cotton dungarees and a cloth cap; now good clothes gave him a buzz by reminding him of what he had left behind.
The clothes were part of his image, which was that of a buccaneer. His deals usually involved risk, or opportunism, or both; and he took care that from the outside they looked sharper than they were. A reputation for having the magic touch was worth more than a merchant bank.
It was the image that had seduced Peters. Laski thought about Peters as he walked briskly past St. Paul's Cathedral toward their rendezvous. A small, narrow-minded man, his expertise was in the movement of cash: not credit, but physical funds, paper money. He worked for the Bank of England, the ultimate source of legal tender. His job was to arrange for the creation and destruction of notes and coins. He did not make policy-that was done at a higher level, perhaps in the Cabinet-but he knew how many fivers Barclays Bank needed before they did.
Laski had first met him at the cocktail-party opening of an office block built by a discount house. Laski went to such affairs for no reason other than to meet people like Peters, who might one day come in useful. Five years later, Peters became useful. Laski phoned him at the Bank, and asked him to recommend a numismatist to advise on a fictitious purchase of old coins. Peters announced that he was a collector, in a small way, and that he would look at them himself, if Laski wished. Splendid, Laski said, and rushed out to get the coins. Peters advised him to buy. Suddenly, they were friends.
(The purchase became the foundation of a collection which was now worth double what Laski had paid for it. That was incidental to his purpose, but he was inordinately proud of it.)
It turned out that Peters was an early riser, partly because he liked it, but also because money was moved around in the mornings, and so the bulk of his work needed to be done before nine o'clock. Laski learned that it was Peters's custom to drink coffee in a particular cafe' at around six thirty each day, and he began to join him, at first occasionally, and then regularly. Laski pretended to be an early riser himself, and joined in Peters's praise of the quiet streets and the crisp morning air. In truth he liked to get up late, but he was prepared to make a lot of sacrifices if there was half a chance of this far-fetched scheme coming off.
He turned in to the cafe', breathing hard. At his age, even a fit man was entitled to blow after a long walk. The place smelled of coffee and fresh bread. The walls were hung with plastic tomatoes and watercolors of the proprietor's hometown in Italy. Behind the counter, a woman in overalls and a longhaired youth were making mountains of sandwiches ready for the hundreds of people who would snatch a bite at their desks this lunchtime. A radio was on somewhere, but it was not loud. Peters was already there, at a window seat.
Laski bought coffee and a leberwurst sandwich and sat down opposite Peters, who was eating doughnuts-he seemed to be one of those people who never put on weight. Laski said: 'It's going to be a fine day.' His voice was deep and resonant, like an actor's, with just a trace of some East European accent.
Peters said: 'Beautiful. And I shall be in my garden by four thirty.'
Laski sipped coffee and looked at the other man. Peters had very short hair and a small mustache and his face looked pinched. He had not yet started work, and he was already looking forward to going home; Laski thought that tragic. He felt a momentary pang of compassion for Peters and all other little men for whom work was a means instead of an end.
'I like my work,' Peters said, as if reading Laski's mind.
Laski covered his surprise. 'But you like your garden better.'
'In this weather, yes. Do you have a garden… Felix?'
'My housekeeper tends the window boxes. I'm not a man of hobbies.' Laski reflected on Peters's hesitant use of his Christian name. The man was slightly awestruck, he decided. Good.
'No time, I suppose. You must work very hard.'
'So people tell me. It's just that I prefer to spend the hours between six p.m. and midnight making fifty thousand dollars than watching actors pretend to kill each other on television.'
Peters laughed. 'The most imaginative brain in the City turns out to have no imagination.'
'I don't follow that.'
'You don't read novels or go to the cinema, either, do you?'
'No.'
'You see? You've got a blind spot-you can't empathize with fiction. It's true of many of the most enterprising businessmen. The incapacity seems to go with heightened acumen, like a blind man's hypersensitive hearing.'
Laski frowned. Being analyzed put him at a disadvantage. 'Maybe,' he said.
Peters seemed to sense his discomfort. 'I'm fascinated by the careers of great entrepreneurs,' he said.
'So am I,' Laski said. 'I'm all in favor of pinching other people's brain waves.'
'What was your first coup, Felix?'
Laski relaxed. This was more familiar territory. 'I suppose it was Woolwich Chemicals,' he said. 'That was a small pharmaceuticals manufacturer. After the war they set up a small chain of High Street chemists' shops, with the object of guaranteeing their markets. The trouble was, they knew all about chemistry and nothing about retailing, and the shops ate up most of the profits made by the factory.
'I was working for a stockbroker at the time, and I'd made a little money playing the market. I went to my boss and offered him a half-share in the profits if he would finance the deal. We bought the company, and immediately sold the factory to ICI for almost as much as we paid for the shares. Then we closed the shops and sold them one by one-they were all in prime sites.'
'I'll never understand this sort of thing,' Peters said. 'If the factory and the shops were worth so much, why were the shares cheap?'
'Because the enterprise was losing money. They hadn't paid a dividend for years. The management didn't have the guts to cash in their chips, so to speak. We did. Everything in business is courage.' He started to eat his sandwich.
'It's fascinating,' Peters said. He looked at his watch. 'I must go.'
'Big day?' Laski said lightly.
'Today's one of the days-and that always means headaches.'
'Did you solve that problem?'
'Which?'
'Routes.' Laski lowered his voice a fraction. 'Your security people wanted you to send the convoy a different way each time.'
'No.' Peters was embarrassed: it had been indiscreet of him to tell Laski about that dilemma. 'There is really only one sensible way to get there. However…' He stood up.
Laski smiled and kept his voice casual. 'So today's big shipment goes by the old direct route.'
