purchase of that rooster than any official deal I have ever done, this
one included.” He smiled, knowing they were uneasy to hear this story,
and not caring. “A million pounds is nothing, but a rooster can save a
whole family from starvation.”
Hamilton mumbled: “very true.”
Laski reverted to his normal image. “Let me call the bank to warn them
that this check is on its way.”
“Surely.” Fett took him to the door and pointed.
“That room is empty. Valerie will give you a line.”
“Thank you. When I return, we can sign the letters.” Laski went into the
little room and picked up the. phone When he heard the dial tone, he
looked out of the room to make sure Valerie was not listening. She was
at the filing cabinet. Laski dialed.
“Cotton Bank of Jamaica.”
“Laski here. Give me Jones.”
There was a pause.
“Good morning, Mr. Laski.”
“Jones, I’ve just signed a check for a million pounds.”
At first there was no reply. Then Jones said:
“Jesus. You haven’t got it.”
“All the same, you will clear the check.”
“But what about Threadneedle Street?” The banker’s voice was rising in
pitch. “We don’t have enough cash on deposit at the bank!”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“Mr. Laski. This bank cannot authorize one million pounds to be
transferred from its account at the Bank of England to another account
at the Bank of England, because this bank does not have one million
pounds on deposit at the Bank of England. I don’t think I can make the
situation plainer.”
“Jones, who owns the Cotton Bank of Jamaica?”
Jones drew in his breath loudly. “You do, sir.”
“Quite.” Laski put the phone down.
TWELVE NOON JESSE JAMES was perspiring. The midday sun was unseasonably
strong, and the wide glass windshield of the van magnified its heat, so
that the rays burned his naked, meaty forearms and scorched the legs of
his trousers. He was awful hot.
As well as that, he was terrified Jacko had told him to drive slowly.
The advice was superfluous. A mile from the scrap yard he had run into
heavy traffic; and it had been bumper-to-bumper since then,. across half
of South London. He could not have hurried if he had wanted to.
He had both of the van’s sliding side doors open, but this did not help.
There was no wind when the vehicle was stationary, and all he got when
he moved was a light breeze of warm exhaust smoke.
Jesse believed driving ought to be an adventure. He had been in love
with cars since he stole his first motor Zephyr-Zodiac with customized
fins at the age of twelve. He liked to race away from traffic lights,
double-de clutch on bends, and scare the hell out of Sunday drivers.
When another motorist dared to sound his horn, Jesse would yell curses
and shake his fist, and fantasize about shooting the bastard through the
head. In his own car He kept a pistol in the glove compartment. It had
never been used.
But driving was no fun when you had a fortune in stolen money in the
back. You had to accelerate gradually and brake evenly, give the old
slowing-down Signal when you pulled up, refrain from overturning, and
give way to pedestrians at road junctions. It occurred to him that there
was such a thing as suspiciously good behavior: an intelligent copper,
seeing a youngish bloke in a van pood ling along like an old dear on a
driving test, might well smell a rat.
He came to yet another junction on the interminable South Circular Road.
The light turned from green to amber. Jesse’s instinct was to push his
foot to the floor and race the signal. He gave a weary sigh, flapped his
arm out of the window like a fool, and came to a careful stop.
He should try not to worry–nervous people made mistakes. He ought to
forget the money, think about something else. He had driven thousands of
miles through the exasperating traffic of London without ever being
stopped by the law: why should today be different? Even the Old Bill