Hamilton looked at Laski. "What are your plans for the group?" he asked.

Laski suppressed a sigh. There was no point to any kind of cross-examination. He was quite free to tell Hamilton a pack of lies. He did just that. "The first step would be a large capital injection," he said. "Then an improvement in management services, a shakeout at top level in the operating companies, and some streamlining in low-performance sectors." Nothing could have been farther from the truth, but if Hamilton wanted to read the script from the top, Laski was happy to go along with it.

"You've chosen a crucial moment at which to make your offer."

"Not really," Laski said. "The oil well, if it happens, will be a bonus. What I'm buying is a fundamentally sound group which is going through a bad patch. I shall make it profitable without meddling with its infrastructure. That happens to be my particular talent." He smiled self-consciously. "Despite my reputation, I'm interested in running real industries, not trading in equities."

He caught a hostile glance from Fett: the broker knew he was lying. "So why the twelve o'clock deadline?"

"I think the price of Hamilton shares will go up unreasonably if you get the license. This could be my last chance for some time of buying at a sensible price."

"Fair enough," Hamilton said, taking the initiative away from Fett. "But I, too, have set a deadline. How do you feel about that?"

"Quite happy," Laski lied. In truth he was desperately worried. Hamilton's wish to see the money "in his hand" at the time the deal was signed was unexpected. Laski had planned to pay a deposit today and the balance when final contracts were exchanged. But although Hamilton's stipulation was eccentric, it was perfectly reasonable. Once the letter had been signed Laski was able to trade in the shares, either selling them or using them to raise a loan. What he planned was to use the shares-at their oil-inflated price-to raise the money to pay for the original purchase.

But he had fallen into the pit he had dug. He had tempted Hamilton with a fast deal, and the old man had gone for it too well. Laski did not know what he was going to do, for he did not have a million pounds-he would have been scraping the barrel for the one-hundred-thousand deposit. But he did know what he was not going to do: he would not let this deal slip through his fingers.

"Quite happy," he repeated.

Fett said: "Derek, perhaps now is the time you and I should have a few minutes together-"

"I don't think so," Hamilton interrupted. "Unless you plan to tell me that this deal is riddled with pitfalls?"

"Not at all."

"In that case"-Hamilton turned to Laski-"I accept."

Laski stood up and shook Hamilton's hand. The fat man was mildly embarrassed by the gesture, but it was one Laski believed in. Men like Hamilton could always find escape clauses in a contract, but they could not bear to renege on a handshake.

Laski said: "The funds are in the Cotton Bank of Jamaica-London branch, of course. I imagine this presents no problem." He drew a checkbook from his pocket.

Fett frowned. It was a very small bank, but perfectly respectable. He would have preferred a check drawn on a clearing bank, but he could hardly object at this stage without seeming obstructive: Laski knew he would feel like this.

Laski wrote the check and handed it to Hamilton. "It's not often a man pockets a million pounds," he said.

Hamilton seemed to become jovial. He smiled: "It's not often a man spends it."

Laski said: "When I was ten years old our rooster died, and I went with my father to market to buy a new one. It cost the equivalent of… oh, three pounds. But my family had saved for a year to accumulate that money. More heart searching went into the purchase of that rooster than any financial 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.

Peter "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-a Zephyr-Zodiac with customized fins-at the age of twelve. He liked to race away from traffic lights, double-declutch 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 overtaking, 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 poodling 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 couldn't smell hot money.