"It's fascinating," Peters said. He looked at his watch. "I must go."
"Big day?" Laski said lightly.
"Today's one of the days-and that always means headaches."
"Did you solve that problem?"
"Which?"
"Routes." Laski lowered his voice a fraction. "Your security people wanted you to send the convoy a different way each time."
"No." Peters was embarrassed: it had been indiscreet of him to tell Laski about that dilemma. "There is really only one sensible way to get there. However…" He stood up.
Laski smiled and kept his voice casual. "So today's big shipment goes by the old direct route."
Peters put a finger to his lips. "Security," he said.
"Sure."
Peters picked up his raincoat. "Good-bye."
"I'll see you tomorrow," Laski said, smiling broadly.
3
Arthur Cole climbed the steps from the station, his breath rattling unhealthily in his chest. A gust of warm air came up from the bowels of the Underground, wrapped itself snugly around him, and blew away. He shivered slightly as he emerged into the street.
The sunshine took him by surprise-it had hardly been dawn when he boarded the train. The air was chilled and sweet. Later it would become poisonous enough to knock out a policeman on point duty. Cole remembered the first time that had happened: the story had been an Evening Post exclusive.
He walked slowly until his breathing eased. Twenty-five years in newspapers have ruined my health, he thought. In truth, any industry would have done the same, for he was prone to worry and to drink, and his chest was weak; but it comforted him to blame his profession.
Anyway, he had given up smoking. He had been a nonsmoker for-he looked at his watch-one hundred and twenty-eight minutes, unless he counted the night, in which case it was eight hours.