Paper Money

  He needed a way to shine--something which would make the Post's executives notice him and say: "Young Hart is good--are we making the most of him?" One good break could do it: a hot tip, an exclusive interview, a spectacular piece of initiative.

  He had thought he had found that something today, and he had been wrong. Now he wondered whether it would ever happen.

  He stood up and went to the Gents'. What else can I do? he thought. I could always go into computers, or advertising, or public relations, or retail management. But I want to leave newspapers as a success, not a failure.

  While he was washing his hands, Arthur Cole came in. The older man spoke to Kevin over his shoulder. To Kevin's astonishment, he said: "Sorry about that, Kevin. You know how it gets on that news desk sometimes."

  Kevin pulled down a length of towel. He was not sure what to say.

  Cole moved across to the washbasin. "No hard feelings?"

  "I'm not offended," Kevin said. "I don't mind you swearing. I wouldn't care if you called me the biggest bastard on earth." He hesitated. This was not what he wanted to say. He stared in the mirror for a moment, then took the plunge. "But when my story appears in the paper without half of the facts, I start to wonder if I ought to become a computer programmer."

  Cole filled the basin with cold water and splashed some on his face. He fumbled for the towel and wiped himself dry. "You ought to know this, but I'll tell you anyway," he began. "The story we put in the paper consisted of what we know, and only what we know. We know Fitzpeterson was found unconscious and rushed to hospital, and we know there was an empty bottle beside him, because you saw all that. You were in the right place at the right time, which, incidentally, is an important talent for a reporter to have. Now, what else do we know? We know we got an anonymous tip that the man had spent the night with a whore; and that someone phoned up claiming to be Fitzpeterson and saying he was being blackmailed by Laski and Cox. Now, if we print those two facts, we cannot but imply that they are connected with the overdose; indeed, that he took the overdose because he was being blackmailed over the whore."

  Kevin said: "But that implication is so obvious that surely we're deceiving people if we don't print it!"

  "And what if the calls were hoaxes, the tablets were indigestion pills, and the man's in a diabetic coma? And we've ruined his career?"

  "Isn't that a bit unlikely?"

  "You bet. Kevin, I'm ninety percent sure that the truth is the way your original story read. But we're not here to print our suspicions. Now, let's get back to work."

  Kevin followed Arthur through the door and across the newsroom. He felt like the heroine in the movie who says: "I'm so confused, I don't know what to do!" He was half inclined to think that Arthur was right; but he also felt that things should not be that way.

  A phone rang at an unattended desk, and Kevin picked it up. "Newsroom."

  "Are you a reporter?" It was a woman's voice.

  "Yes, madam. My name is Kevin Hart. How can I help you?"

  "My husband's been shot and I want justice."

  Kevin sighed. A domestic shooting meant a court case, which in turn meant there was no way the paper could do much of a story. He guessed that the woman was going to tell him who had shot her husband and ask him to print it. But it was juries who decided who shot whom, not newspapers. Kevin said: "Tell me your name, please?"

  "Doreen Johnson, five Yew Street, east one. My Willie was shot on this currency job." The woman's voice cracked. "He's been blinded." She started to shout. "It was a Tony Cox job--so just print that!" The line went dead.

  Kevin put the phone down slowly, trying to take it in.

  This was turning out to be one hell of a day for phone calls.

  He picked up his notebook and went to the news desk.

  Arthur said: "Got something?"

  "Don't know," Kevin told him. "A woman phoned up. Gave me her name and address. She said her husband was on the currency raid, that he was shot in the face and blinded, and that it was a Tony Cox job."

  Arthur stared. "Cox?" he said. "Cox?"

  Someone called: "Arthur!"

  Kevin looked up, annoyed at the interruption. The voice belonged to Mervyn Glazier, the paper's City editor, a stocky young man in battered suede shoes and a sweat-stained shirt.

  Glazier came nearer and said: "I may have a story for your pages this afternoon. Possible collapse of a bank. It's called the Cotton Bank of Jamaica, and it's owned by a man called Felix Laski."

  Arthur and Kevin stared at one another.

  Arthur said: "Laski? Laski?"

  Kevin said: "Jesus Christ."

  Arthur frowned, scratched his head, and said wonderingly: "What the hell is going on?"

  24

  The blue Morris was still tailing Tony Cox. He spotted it in the car park of the pub when he came out. He hoped they would not play silly buggers and breathalyze him: he had drunk three pints of lager with his smoked-salmon sandwiches.

  The detectives pulled out of the exit a few seconds behind the Rolls. Tony was not concerned. He had lost them once today, and he could do it again. The simplest way would have been to find a fast stretch of road and put his foot down. However, he would prefer that they did not know they had lost him, just like this morning.

  It would not be difficult.

  He crossed the river and entered the West End. As he picked his way through the traffic he wondered about the Old Bill's motives in following him around. It was partly a simple case of making a nuisance of themselves, he was sure. What did the briefs call it? Harassment. They figured that if they tailed him long enough he would get impatient or careless and do something stupid. But that was only the justification: the real motive probably lay in Scotland Yard politics. Perhaps the Assistant Commissioner (Crime) had threatened to take the Tony Cox firm away from C1 and give it to the Flying Squad, so C1 had laid on the surveillance in order to be able to say they were doing something.

  So long as they did not get all serious about it, Tony did not mind. They had got serious once, a few years ago. At that time Tony's firm had been under the eagle eye of the CID at West End Central. Tony had had a close understanding with the detective-inspector working on his case. One week the DI had refused his usual money, and warned Tony that the game was over. The only way Tony had been able to square it had been to sacrifice some of his soldiers. He and the DI had set up five middle-management villains on extortion charges. The five had gone to jail, the Press had praised the CID for breaking the gang's hold on London, and business had gone on as usual. Sadly, that DI later went down himself, for planting cannabis on a student: a sorry end to a promising career, Tony felt.

  He pulled into a multistory car park in Soho. He paused at the entry, spending a long time taking his ticket from the machine, and watched the blue Morris in his mirrors. One of the detectives jumped out of the car and ran across the road to cover the pedestrian exit. The other found a parking space on a meter a few yards away--a position from which he could see cars coming out of the building. Tony nodded, satisfied.

  He drove up to the first floor and stopped the Rolls beside the office. Inside he found a young man he did not know.

  He said: "I'm Tony Cox. I want you to park mine and get me one of your long-stay motors--one that's not likely to be picked up today."

  The man frowned. He had frizzy, untidy hair and oil-stained jeans with frayed bottoms. He said: "I can't do that, mate."

  Tony tapped his foot impatiently. "I don't like saying things twice, son. I'm Tony Cox."

  The young man laughed. He stood up, putting down a comic, and said: "I don't care who you are, you--"

  Tony hit him in the stomach. His large fist landed with a soft thump. It was like punching a feather pillow. The attendant doubled over, moaning and gasping for air.

  "I'm short of time, boy," Tony said.

  The office door opened. "What's going on?" An older man in a baseball cap entered. "Oh, it's you, Tony. Having trouble?"

  "Where hav
e you been--smoking in the bog?" Tony said harshly. "I want a car that can't be traced to me, and I'm in a hurry."

  "No problem," the older man said. He took a bunch of keys from a hook on the asbestos wall. "Got a nice Granada, in here for a fortnight. Three-liter automatic, a nice bronze color--"

  "I don't give a toss what color it is." Tony took the keys.

  "Over there." The man pointed. "I'll park yours."

  Tony went out of the office and got into the Granada. He put on the safety belt and pulled away. He paused beside his own car, which the man in the cap was now sitting in.

  "What's your name?" Tony said.

  "I'm Davy Brewster, Tony."

  "All right, Davy Brewster." Tony reached for his wallet and took out two ten-pound notes. "Make sure the kid keeps his mouth shut, okay?"

  "No problem. Thanks very much." Davy took the money.

  Tony pulled away. As he drove, he put on sunglasses and his cloth cap. When he emerged into the street, the blue Morris was away to his right. He put his right elbow on the window ledge, covering his face, and steered with his left hand. The second detective, on Tony's left, had his back to the road so that he could see the pedestrian exit. The man was pretending to look in the window of a religious bookshop.

  Tony looked in his mirror as he accelerated away. Neither of them had seen him.

  "Easy," Tony said aloud. He drove south.

  The car was quite pleasant, with automatic gears and power-assisted steering. It had a tape deck. Tony sorted through the cassettes, found a Beatles cassette, and put it on. Then he lit a cigar.

  In less than an hour he would be at the farm, counting the money.

  Felix Laski had been well worth cultivating, Tony thought. They had met in the restaurant of one of Tony's clubs. The Cox casinos served the best food in London. They had to. Tony's motto was: if you serve peanuts, you get monkeys for customers. He wanted rich people in his gambling clubs, not yobboes asking for draft bitter and fivepenny chips. He did not like fancy food himself, but on the night he met Laski he was eating a vast, rare T-bone steak at a table near the financier's.

  The chef was pinched from Prunier's. Tony did not know what he did to the steaks, but the result was sensational. The tall, elegant man at the next table had caught his eye: a fine-looking man for his age. He was with a young girl whom Tony instantly marked as a tart.

  Tony had finished his steak, and was tucking into a mountain of trifle, when the accident happened. The waiter was serving Laski with canelloni, and somehow a half-full bottle of claret got knocked over. The tart squealed and jumped out of the way, and a few drops of wine spattered Laski's brilliant white shirt.

  Tony acted immediately. He stood up, dropping his napkin on the table, and summoned three waiters and the maitre d'hotel. He spoke first to the waiter who had caused the mess. "Go and get changed. Pick up your cards on Friday." He turned to the others. "Bernardo, a cloth. Giulio, another bottle of wine. Monsieur Charles, another table, and no bill for this gentleman." Finally he spoke to the diners. "I'm the proprietor, Tony Cox. Please have your dinner on the house, with my apologies, and I hope you'll have the most expensive dishes on the menu, beginning with a bottle of Dom Perignon."

  Laski spoke then. "These things can't be helped." His voice was deep and faintly accented. "But it is nice to have such a generous, old-fashioned apology." He smiled.

  "It missed my dress," the tart said. Her accent confirmed Tony's guess about her profession: she came from the same part of London as he did.

  The maitre d'hotel said: "M'sieur Cox, the house is full. There is no other table."

  Tony pointed to his own table. "What's wrong with that one? Clear it, quickly."

  "Please don't," Laski said. "We wouldn't like to deprive you."

  "I insist."

  "Then, please join us."

  Tony looked at them both. The tart obviously didn't like the idea. Was the gent just being polite, or did he mean it? Well, Tony had almost finished, so if it didn't work out he could leave the table quite soon.

  "I don't want to intrude--"

  "You won't be," Laski said. "And you can tell me how to win at roulette."

  "Right-oh," Tony said.

  He stayed with them all evening. He and Laski got on famously, and it was made clear early on that what the girl thought did not count. Tony told stories of villainy in the world of gambling clubs, and Laski matched him, anecdote for anecdote, with tales of Stock Exchange sharp practice. It transpired that Laski was not a gambler, but that he liked to bring people to the club. When they went into the casino he bought fifty pounds' worth of chips and gave them all to the girl. The evening ended when Laski, by now quite drunk, said: "I suppose I should take her home and screw her."

  After that they met several times--never by arrangement--in the club, and always ended up getting drunk together. After a while Tony let the other man know that he was gay, and Laski did nothing about it, from which Tony concluded that the financier was a tolerant heterosexual.

  It pleased Tony to know that he could befriend someone of Laski's class. The scene in the restaurant was the easiest bit, and it was well rehearsed: the grand gestures, the posture of command, the heavy courtesy, and a conscious moderating of his accent. But to maintain the acquaintance with someone as brainy, as rich, and as used to moving in near-aristocratic circles as Laski was seemed quite an achievement.

  It was Laski who made the first move toward a deeper relationship. They had been bragging-drunk in the early hours of a Sunday morning, and Laski had been talking about the power of money. "Given enough money," he said, "I can find out anything in the City--right down to the combination of the lock on the vault in the Bank of England."

  Tony said: "Sex is better."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Sex is a better weapon. I can find out anything in London, using sex."

  "Now that I doubt," said Laski, whose sexual urges were well under control.

  Tony shrugged. "All right. Challenge me."

  That was when Laski made his move. "The development license for the Shield oil field. Find out who's got it--before the government makes the announcement."

  Tony saw the gleam in the financier's eye, and guessed that the whole conversation had been planned. "Why don't you ask me something difficult?" he countered. "Politicians and civil servants are much too easy."

  "It will do," Laski smiled.

  "Okay. But I've got to challenge you, too."

  Laski's eyes narrowed. "Go on."

  Tony said the first thing that came into his head. "Find out the schedule for deliveries of used notes to the currency destruction plant of the Bank of England."

  "It won't even cost me money," Laski said confidently.

  And that was how it had started. Tony grinned as he drove the Ford through South London. He did not know how Laski had managed to keep his half of the bargain; but Tony's side had been a doddle. Who has the information we want? The Minister. What's he like? The next thing to a virgin--a faithful husband. Is he getting his oats from the wife? Not much. Will he fall for the oldest trick in the game? Like a dream.

  The tape ended, and he turned it over. He wondered how much money had been in the currency van--a hundred grand? Maybe even a quarter of a million. Much more than that would be embarrassing. You couldn't walk into Barclays Bank with sacks full of used fivers without arousing suspicion. About a hundred and fifty grand would be ideal. Five gees for each of the boys, a few more for expenses, and about fifty thousand surreptitiously added to the takings of various legitimate businesses tonight. Gambling clubs were very useful for concealing illicit income.

  The boys knew what to do with five grand. Pay off a few debts, buy a secondhand car, put a few hundred in each of two or three bank accounts, give the wife a new coat, lend the mother-in-law a couple of bob, spend a night in the pub, and bang, it was all gone. But give them twenty thousand and they started to get silly ideas. When unemployed laborers and freelance odd-job men were heard
to talk about villas in the South of France, the law began to get suspicious.

  Tony grinned at himself. I should worry about having too much money, he thought. Problems of success are the kind I like. Don't count your chicks before you've laid them, Jacko sometimes said. The van might be full of wornout halfpennies for melting down.

  Now that would be a chuckle.

  He was nearly there. He started to whistle.

  25

  Felix Laski sat in his office, watching a television screen and tearing a buff envelope into narrow strips. The closed-circuit TV was the modern equivalent of the ticker tape; and Laski felt like the worried broker in an old movie about the 1929 crash. The set continuously screened market news and price movements in equities, commodities, and currency. There had been no mention of the oil license. Hamilton shares had dropped five points on yesterday, and trading was moderate.

  He finished demolishing the envelope and dropped the scraps into a metal wastepaper basket. The oil license should have been announced an hour ago.

  He picked up the blue phone and dialed 123. "At the third stroke, the time will be one, forty-seven, and fifty seconds." The announcement was more than an hour late. He dialed the Department of Energy and asked for the Press Office. A woman told him: "The Secretary of State has been delayed. The Press conference will begin as soon as he arrives, and the announcement will be made immediately after he opens the conference."

  The hell with your delays, Laski thought: I've got a fortune riding on this.

  He pressed the intercom. "Carol?" There was no reply. He bellowed: "Carol!"

  The girl poked her head around the door. "I'm sorry, I was at the filing cabinet."

  "Get me some coffee."

  "Certainly."

  He took from his "in" tray a file headed PRECISION TUBING--SALES REPORT, 1ST QUARTER. It was a piece of routine espionage on a firm he was thinking of taking over. He had a theory that capital equipment tended to do well when a slump was bottoming out. But does Precision have the capacity for expansion? he wondered.

  He looked at the first page of the report, winced at the sales director's indigestible prose, and tossed the file aside. When he took a gamble and lost, he could accept it with equanimity. What threw him was something going wrong for unknown reasons. He knew he would not be able to concentrate on anything until the Shield business was settled.