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 advised 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
farfetched 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 home town in Italy. Behind the counter, a woman in
overalls and a long-haired youth were making mountains of sandwiches
ready for the hundreds of people who would snatch a bite at their desks
this lunch-time. 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 a doughnut–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 moustache, 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 the 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’ hesitant use of his Christian name. The man
was slightly awestruck, he decided. Good.
“No time, I suppose. You must work very hard.”