Paper Money Read Free Page A

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 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