Paper Money

Jacko said: "They all know the score."

"Good. Anything else?"

The three men were silent.

Tony gave his final instructions. "Everybody wears a mask. Everybody wears gloves. Nobody speaks." He looked to each man in turn for acknowledgment. Then he said: "Okay, take me back."

There was no conversation as the red Fiat wound its way through the little streets to the lane behind the billiard hall.

Tony got out, then leaned on the front passenger door and spoke through the open window: "It's a good plan, and if you do right, it will work. There's a couple of wrinkles you don't know about-safeguards, inside men. Keep calm, do good, and we'll have it away." He paused. "And don't shoot nobody with that bleeding tommy gun, for fuck's sake."

He walked up the lane and entered the billiard hall by the back door. Walter was playing billiards at one of the tables. He straightened up when he heard the door.

"All right, Tone?"

Tony went to the window. "Did pally stay put?" He could see the blue Morris in the same place.

"Yes. They've been smoking theirself to death."

It was fortunate, Tony thought, that the law did not have enough manpower to watch him at night as well as in the day. The nine-to-five surveillance was quite useful, for it permitted him to establish alibis without seriously restricting his activities. One of these days they would start following him twenty-four hours a day. But he would have plenty of advance notice of that.

Walter jerked a thumb at the table. "Fancy a break?"

"No." Tony left the window. "I got a busy day." He went down the stairs, and Walter hobbled after him.

"Ta-ta, Walter," he said as he went out into the street.

"So long, Tony," Walter said. "God bless you, boy."

8

The newsroom came to life suddenly. At eight o'clock it had been as still as a morgue, the quietness broken only by inanimate sounds like the stuttering of the teleprinter and the rustle of the newspapers Cole was reading. Now three copytakers were pounding the keys, a Lad was whistling a pop song, and a photographer in a leather coat was arguing with a subeditor about a football match. The reporters were drifting in. Most of them had an early-morning routine, Cole had observed: one bought tea, another lit a cigarette, another turned to page three of the Sun to look at the nude, each using an habitual crutch to help him start the day.

Cole believed in letting people sit down for a few minutes before setting them to work: it made for an atmosphere of order and coolheadedness. His news editor, Cliff Poulson, had a different approach. Poulson, with his froglike green eyes and Yorkshire accent, liked to say: "Don't take your coat off, lad." His delight in snap decisions, his perpetual hurry, and his brittle air of bonhomie created a frenetic atmosphere. Poulson was a speed freak. Cole did not reckon a story had ever missed an edition because someone took a minute out to think about it.

Kevin Hart had been here for five minutes now. He was reading the Mirror, with one hip perched on the edge of a desk, the trousers of his striped suit falling gracefully. Cole called out to him. "Give the Yard a ring, please, Kevin." The young man picked up a telephone.

The Bertie Chieseman tips were on his desk: a thick wad of copy. Cole looked around. Most of the reporters were in. It was time to get them working. He sorted through the tips, impaling some on a sharp metal spike, handing others to reporters with brief instructions. "A

An internal phone beeped and he lifted it. "Arthur Cole."

"What have you got for me, Arthur?"

Cole recognized the voice of the picture editor. He said: "At the moment, it looks as though the splash will be last night's vote in the Commons."

"But that was on the television yesterday!"

"Did you call to ask me things or tell me things?"

"I suppose I'd better have somebody at Downing Street for a today picture of the Prime Minister. Anything else?"

"Nothing that isn't in the morning papers."

"Thank you, Arthur."

Cole hung up. It was poor, to be leading on a yesterday story. He was doing his best to update it-two reporters were ringing around for reactions. They were getting backbench MPs to shoot off their mouths, but no Ministers.

A middle-aged reporter with a pipe called out: "Mrs. Poulson just rang. Cliff won't be in today. He's got Delhi belly."

Cole groaned. "How did he catch that in Orpington?"

"Curry supper."

"Okay." That was clever, Cole thought. It looked like being the dullest day for news in the month, and Poulson was off sick. With the assistant news editor on holiday, Cole was on his own.

Kevin Hart approached the desk. "Nothing from the Yard," he said. "It's been quiet all night."

Cole looked up. Hart was about twenty-three and very tall, with curly fair hair, which he wore long. Cole suppressed a spasm of irritation. "That is ridiculous," he said. "Scotland Yard never has a completely quiet night. What's the matter with that Press Bureau?"

"We ought to do a story-'London's first crime-free night for a thousand years,' " Hart said with a grin.

His levity a

Hart flushed. It embarrassed him to be lectured like a cub reporter. "I'll ring them back, shall I?"

"No," said Cole, seeing that he had made his point. "I want you to do a story. You know this new oil field in the North Sea?"

Hart nodded. "It's called Shield."

"Yes. Later on the Energy Minister is going to a

"Okay." Hart turned away and made for the library. He knew he was being given a dumb job as a kind of punishment, but he took his medicine gracefully, Cole thought. He stared at the boy's back for a moment. He got on Cole's nerves, with his long hair and his suits. He had rather too much self-confidence-but then, reporters needed a lot of cheek.

Cole stood up and went to the subeditors' table. The deputy chief sub had in front of him the wire service story about the passing of the Industry Bill and the new stuff Cole's reporters had come up with. Cole looked over his shoulder. On a scratch pad he had written:

REBEL MPs TOLD "JOIN THE LIBS"

The man scratched his beard and looked up. "What do you think?"

"It looks like a story about Women's Lib," Cole said. "I hate it."

"So do I." The sub tore the sheet off the pad, crumpled it, and tossed it in a metal bin. "What else is new?"

"Nothing. I've only just given out the tips."

The bearded man nodded and glanced reflexively at the clock hanging from the ceiling in front. "Let's hope we get something decent for the second."

Cole leaned over him and wrote on the pad:

REBEL MPs TOLD "JOIN LIBERALS"

He said: "It makes more sense, but it's the same count."

The sub gri

Cole went back to his desk. A

Cole said: "Okay."