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 hometown in Italy. Behind the counter, a woman in overalls and a longhaired youth were making mountains of sandwiches ready for the hundreds of people who would snatch a bite at their desks this lunchtime. 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 doughnuts-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 mustache 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 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's hesitant use of his Christian name. The man was slightly awestruck, he decided. Good.