Read Online Paper Money by Ken Follett - Free Book Online

yard gate. The three men followed. Tony trod
    gingerly around potholes and swampy patches, past a stack of thousands
    of lead-acid accumulators, between mounds of drive shafts and gearboxes,
    to the crane.
     
    It was a smallish model, on caterpillar tracks, capable of lifting a
    car, a van, or a light truck. He unbuttoned his overcoat and climbed the
    ladder to the high cab.
     
    He sat in the operator's seat. The all-round windows enabled him to see
    the whole of the yard. It was triangular in plan. One side was a railway
    viaduct, its brick arches filled in by storerooms. A high wall on the
    adjacent side separated the yard from a playground and a bomb site. The
    road ran along the front of the yard, curving slightly as it followed
    the bend of the river a few yards beyond.
     
    It was a wide road, but little used.
     
    In the lee of the viaduct was a hut made of old wooden doors supporting
    a tar-paper roof. The men would be in there, huddled around an electric
    fire, drinking tea and smoking nervously.
     
    Everything was right. Tony felt elation rise in his belly as instinct
    told him it would work. He climbed out of the crane.
     
    He deliberately kept his voice low, steady and casual. "This van doesn't
    always go the same route. There are lots of ways from the City to
    Loughton. But this place is on most of the routes, right? They got to
    pass here unless they want to go via Birmingham or Watford. Now, they do
    go daft ways occasionally. Today might be one of those days. So, if it
    doesn't come off, just give the lads a bonus and send them home until
    next time." 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 their self 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."
     
    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 copy-takers were pounding the keys, a Lad was
    whistling a pop song, and a photographer in a leather coat was arguing
    with a sub-editor 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